


Far From Home.

by littlethiefs



Series: Ghost of a Renegade [1]
Category: The Daevabad Trilogy - S. A. Chakraborty
Genre: F/M, Post-Book 3: Empire of Gold, Spoilers for Book 3: The Empire of Gold, dara makes friends and gets soft, self-indulgent multichapter fic tbh, they'll meet in the end be patient, they've never fallen out of love and they're realizing it hehe
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-02
Updated: 2020-08-20
Packaged: 2021-03-04 18:15:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 13
Words: 37,173
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25040734
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/littlethiefs/pseuds/littlethiefs
Summary: Warning: this work takes place AFTER THE EVENTS of Empire of Gold. It contains spoilers!As Darayavahoush travels the world on his quest to find slave vessels, he sometimes frequents Cairo. On one of his trips, he visits the abandoned, supposedly haunted village on the banks of the Nile... and finds something that belonged to Nahri's mother. Determined to bring it to her, Dara looks for a way to return to Daevabad and his Banu Nahida.
Relationships: Darayavahoush e-Afsin/Nahri e-Nahid
Series: Ghost of a Renegade [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1901329
Comments: 82
Kudos: 94





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> May I suggest listening to Indigo Night by Tamino to accompany the fic. <3

The first time Dara decided to visit Cairo was just two years after he’d said goodbye to his city, his home. If anyone were to ask, he’d say he went to Egypt to look for vessels, but the truth — no matter how vehemently he denied it to himself — was that he was holding for dear life onto his memories of the woman he loved.

Dara would never forget her face, or the precious few moments he’d spent with her. Creator save him, how had a thief plucked from the streets of Cairo managed to settle so deeply, so permanently into his heart? But every time he closed his eyes, he could see the slight tilt of her head as she smiled slyly at him, her next quip at her lips before his teasing remark had even left his. Her black eyes brightening with wonder as he told her stories of days long gone, histories long written, and people who Dara had long outlived. Her voice, both smooth and husky all at once, her few laughs playful and carefree. Sometimes she would visit him in his sleep— which was its own special sort of torture, but he wouldn’t exchange it for the world. 

And yet, knowing that his memories of her was all he had, that he would never have the chance to create new ones... that was almost too much to bear. So, Dara found himself silently moving towards a cemetery. A cemetery where he’d looked upon her, his Banu Nahida, for the very first time almost a decade ago. 

As the sun shone down on his form, Dara gazed around, taking in the gravestones and the palm trees, the humans bustling about in the streets, a youth hurriedly rushing into a mosque for afternoon prayer. He wondered how much had changed since Nahri had walked these streets— whether that shop selling jewelry had existed or if there had been some other in its place. He veered left into a narrow street, passing a tea shop, its door chiming open as a disgruntled customer stalked out. Dara sidestepped out of the man’s path, and continued his curious inspection of Nahri’s home.

Another left took him down a narrow alley— a market of sorts, packed with humans. The neighborhood seemed run down; the people wore simple garments, the buildings were in disrepair and every once in a while, Dara spotted a quick-fingered child twist a path between the throng of people, clutching whatever it was they had stolen in grubby hands. Stalls selling small trinkets, spices, ink pots and brightly colored headscarves littered the street, their merchants surrounded by hurried customers. He decided it best to leave the market its chaos, and he turned in the opposite direction, hands held behind his back. 

What would you think of your Afshin walking like a tourist through your streets, little thief? he wondered to himself, a smile playing at his lips. He imagined she’d startle at first, before questions about her home would start pouring from her lips. What would she ask about? As soon as the question sprang to his mind, he stopped in his tracks and squinted at the shop now facing him. An apothecary, with a hunched old man tottering about inside. 

Dara swallowed. It couldn’t be. His mind flashed to those nights spent soaring over desert sands and dense forests with Nahri at his side, as she talked about her life before him. She’d had a single friend in the city, a man who owned an apothecary down the alley from where she lived. At that, Dara whirled around to look back at the packed stalls, his heart flipping at the prospect of being so close to where she used to work and live and be. Turning back to the apothecary, Dara clenched his fists — and before he could stop himself from being foolish, he opened the door and walked in.

The old man looked up and frowned, mumbling something about the wind. He seemed to look through Dara, who felt his insides jolt at the idea of speaking to this man. But of course (and the name came swiftly to him now), Yaqub was human and he would not be able to see a daeva unless Dara brought attention to himself. He opened his mouth and closed it immediately, feeling utterly foolish about his circumstances; he was here in a shop with a human who couldn’t see him, feeling strangely nervous. A fourteen hundred year old warrior nervous to speak to an old man, Dara chided himself before positioning himself to stand directly in front of Yaqub. He stood up straighter, cleared his throat and uttered in heavily accented Arabic, “Peace be upon you. Are you Yaqub?”

Yaqub startled, almost dropping the small bottle he held in his hands. Dara grimaced, wondering if he would send this man toppling to the floor, his heart having stopped due to fright. “I didn’t see you come in!” Yaqub exclaimed. "Yes, that's me."

Dara smiled and bowed his head in respect. “I apologize for startling you.”

“Alright, alright,” Yaqub frowned, surveying the daeva from head to toe. He wondered how he must look, his Afshin mark plastered to his temple, black lines snaking up his arms, a dagger sheathed at his waist and a bow strapped to his back. If Yaqub registered his pointed ears, he was polite enough to not mention it. “How can I help you? Are you a soldier?”

“Of a sort. I am not from these lands; I am simply passing through, and your shop seemed, er, interesting,” he finished pathetically. 

Yaqub nodded before turning away. He shelved the bottle of chalky white liquid he had been holding, and began humming as if Dara was no longer there. He considered leaving, but his feet would not move... and so he spoke again, prompting another muffled shriek from the man.

“I am afraid I cannot purchase anything from you today,” Dara said casually, touching the dried herbs placed in a basket by the door. What strange remedies for human illnesses! “But I travel all over the world; if there is a supply you need, please let me know.”

“Ah, so you’re a merchant selling his services?” Yaqub squinted at him in suspicion. “I can’t afford to hire a traveler to get me supplies, son. Does it seem like I am particularly wealthy?” An odd sensation of warmth settled over Dara at being called ‘son’ — he did not think anyone had called him that, not since... his grandfather and father once used to— a lifetime ago. Swallowing, Dara touched a hand over his heart, and shook his head.

“You need not hire me,” he assured Yaqub. “I will bring you anything you need. I do the same for... other merchants throughout other cities I frequent often,” he lied easily, so the offer would not seem as strange. “If you tell me what you need, next time I am in the area, I will simply leave it at your door. It is no trouble. Consider it an act of kindness.”

“Is this a trick?”

Dara bowed his head respectfully again. “No trick, grandfather.” Yaqub’s eyes widened at that, and he gave Dara a small smile, sadness tinging its corners.

“A girl used to call me that once.” His voice was quiet, trailing off as Dara’s breath caught at his words. Spared the prospect of coming up with a response, Yaqub barreled on. “In that case, what do I have to lose? I always require ambergris and chaangeri, should you come across any. What is your name?" He added the last part hastily, as if he had just remembered the man standing in front of him would have a name.

“Dara," Dara replied. "Just Dara. I hope to see you again soon." With another incline of his head, Dara added his people's traditional greeting. "May the fires burn brightly for you.” With that, he turned to leave the apothecary and heard Yaqub bid him a perplexed farewell. Perhaps this was a foolish idea. Yaqub had most likely already forgotten his existence by now, but stepping out into the sun, somehow Dara felt lighter than he had in years. 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dara makes a friend.

It had been several months since Dara had been to Cairo, and tracking the ifrit as best as he could had led him east to Agnivansha. As he tracked, he scanned the places he went to for looted caravans, abandoned villages, listening for humans who had suddenly acquired too much power - _anything_ that would hint at the presence of a slave being controlled by human masters. He’d finally struck luck in northern Agnivansha where its borders touched Tukharistan.

He’d come across a valley, surrounded by conical peaks, lush trees and the bluest waters Dara had ever seen. Yet, there was something _wrong_ in the air; a voice in his head urged him to explore further, leading him to discover the incongruous mix of the beauty of the place, and the repulsive smell wafting towards him. Clenching his jaw, he’d followed the scent of blood and charred bones to what had once been an inhabited city, its buildings desolate, corpses marring the ground. Dara could tell the destruction was recent. He’d pulled his bow, notched an arrow and walked silently through the bloodied streets, looking around shrewdly like an angel of death come to collect his due. 

In a square building with adorned windows, he’d pushed open the door to find himself in a large hall. Bodies littered the floor here too, soldiers if the khanjars and bows strewn beside them were any indication. There was very little blood in here, as if whoever had cut through the civilians outside was different than whoever had killed the humans in here. The men were scorched, and the burning was not reflected in the hall whatsoever. No ash, no soot marks… as if they’d been scorched from the inside out. Dara’s heart beat faster. He knew he was alone here, but he gripped his bow tighter regardless. On the northern end of the hall was a table. A man slumped over it, arms limp at his sides. Dara rushed towards the corpse, reaching for its hands…

His breath caught.

There, on the index finger was a ring, its emerald large and opulent, a garish contrast to the horror it signified. It was the first ring he had found since he’d started on his quest - he had started to fear that what he had set out to do was impossible. He snatched the ring off the human’s hand, immediately depositing it within an inner pocket of his jacket. By the Creator, he’d _found_ someone; the shaky laugh that erupted from his lips sounded hollow to his own ears, reverberating morbidly throughout the silent hall. It died on his lips almost immediately as he remembered that he was still standing amidst death.

He said a quick prayer under his breath - for whom, he did not quite know. He was ready to leave, rushing out of the building to get away from his grisly surroundings before he stopped himself. With the same swiftness, he turned and marched back to the slaveowner and appraised what he was wearing. Jewels were strung around his neck, gaudy gold bracelets winked out from under his sleeve, other rings decorating his left hand. A khanjar encrusted with rubies was sheathed at his weight. Dara paused for a few seconds before he began to remove anything that would get him a decent price should he sell it for money. As he did so, he wondered what had happened here. An overzealous, new human had ordered the destruction of the city and had then gotten himself and his soldiers killed with some poorly worded wish, perhaps. 

He almost laughed to himself again. He used to tease Nahri for her thieving. What had she called it — “being a merchant of delicate tasks,” he recalled. Now here he was, worlds away in more ways than one, taking a page out of her book. But Dara had committed far worse crimes in his life; what was one more?

He shoved the jewels into his pack, unsheathed his dagger and strapped it inside his boot. He admired the khanjar’s gleaming silver blade before sheathing it at his waist. Then, Dara turned on his feet and left this city that no longer was. 

He could use a drink.

***

Raucous laughter filled his ears. Dara watched four Agnivanshi dancers twirl, their lehengas fanning out around their legs, arms moving in elaborate poses, bangles clinking on their wrists. Musicians sat in a corner, playing _tablas_ and _sitars_ , and Dara felt pleasantly comfortable as he took another sip of his wine. 

This was his fifth night in Agnivansha. He’d visited Daevastana’s neighboring province once as a child, but he remembered very little of the place itself. Or the people, for that matter. Afshins were not allowed to visit other tribes’ quarters within Daevabad itself, let alone cross tribal lines for extracurricular travel. Sometimes he wondered if things would have been different if he and his fellow soldiers had been allowed to befriend non-Daevas, but he supposed he would never find out.

He _liked_ it here. Agnivansha was separated from Daevastana by wide rivers and soaring mountains; flying between the tall peaks, avoiding jagged cliffs and dense trees had given him a thrill he once only felt with a sword in his hand, facing off against someone he was confident he would beat. After recovering the ring, he set off to a djinn city he was aware of - one on the eastern bank of the Indus River, called Fasl. The djinn there made use of the rich resources of the region, most of this city’s economy depending on the export of spices and rice. It wasn’t particularly large, but due to its proximity to the border and the constant trading between Fasl and the rest of Daevastana, it was a lively place, one frequented by travelers. That’s where he had headed. After meticulously covering up the Afshin mark he had once taken such pride in, Dara had arranged a place to stay before setting out to sell what he had scavenged in the bazaar. He’d planned to leave the next day after sleeping under a roof after months, yet five nights later, he was in a loud city tavern eating spiced rice and sipping wine. 

He was seated alone at a table when an Agnivanshi man wearing a red and black turban slipped into the chair opposite his. Dara stared at him with raised eyebrows.

“May I help you?” he asked in Djinnistani. The man held out a hand, causing Dara to wonder what it was about him that had given this man the false impression that he desired company. When Dara didn’t take the offered hand, the man pulled back his arm and sat back with a good-natured smile.

“People usually come here to socialize, my friend,” he said, taking a sip from his own cup of wine. “Are you new?” 

“Just passing by,” Dara replied, not saying any more. Perhaps this pesky djinn would take the hint and leave.

“As am I. Nice city, isn’t it? I grew up here, but I moved away to make my living elsewhere. My father grows mangoes on his farm- by the Creator, they are the best mangoes. Do you like mangoes?” Dara shot him an irritated look.

“Are you trying to sell me your father’s mangoes? Do I look like I care about mangoes?” The djinn held out his hands in front of him in mock defense. 

“So you’re not a fan of mangoes, that’s fine!” he said, as if he were being generous by dropping the topic. After a brief silence, he spoke again. “My name is Qasim.” 

Dara shifted in his seat, unconsciously touching his Afshin mark. Telling people who he was probably wasn’t the best idea, no matter how much he wanted them to leave him be. “I do not give my name out so freely. I am sure you understand why,” he responded, fixing Qasim with a cool, green-eyed glare. 

The other man took another swig from his cup. “Truthfully, that is why I sat with you. They say most slaves go mad but you do not seem mad, just hot-tempered and rude.” Dara felt as if he should have been offended, but it had been so long since someone had insulted him to his face that he almost laughed. “I’m sure you have stories to tell.”

“My stories are not pleasant,” he replied, his voice lower than it had been. Of course, Dara didn’t remember the fourteen centuries he’d spent enslaved by the ifrit, but he recalled all too well what it had felt like to be enslaved by Manizheh. Thrashing against his own body, screaming in his head, his tears evaporating before they could be shed. 

Qasim seemed to realize that he had pushed too far. He bowed his head in apology and said, “I am sorry; that was tactless. I travel so much that I’ve developed a fondness for stories, but I suppose not all stories are pleasant to hear _or_ tell..” Qasim gave him a sheepish smile, and Dara waved him off.

The dancers had stopped twirling, and the musicians were gathering their instruments to their chests. Dara downed the last few sips of his drinks, and stretched out his limbs, ready to retire for the night. Then, he felt a delicate hand touch his shoulder. He looked up in surprise to see one of the dancers smiling down at him. She winked with one kohl-rimmed eye, before sashaying away towards the exit. Qasim let out a low whistle.

“Must happen to you a lot,” he laughed. Embarrassed, Dara decided to stay seated for a little longer. “Well, aren’t you going to follow her out?” 

“Not interested,” he grumbled.

“Do you already have someone, then?” Qasim raised his eyebrows teasingly. “I do,” he continued when he realized Dara would not offer up a response. “Her name is Sohra, and she sings like a dream,” he sighed in lovestruck affection, and Dara rolled his eyes. “People from all over Daevabad come to our quarter to hear her-”

Dara suddenly sat up. “Daevabad? You come from Daevabad?”

Qasim’s eyes glinted in the dim light of the tavern, and a slow smile spread across his face. “Oh-ho! _Now_ we’re interested.” Dara did not care that he was being teased, or that the djinn had finally gotten a reaction out of him. 

“Tell me. Tell me news of Daevabad,” he was almost whispering, heart pounding in his chest. For no matter how hard Dara tried to convince himself that he had moved on, that he had left the city in capable hands, that he had a different purpose now, he still felt a pang whenever he thought of his home. He was a wanderer. A traveler. Untethered and floating, but the center of his being would _always_ be Daevabad.

Qasim’s eyes softened at Dara’s expression. “It is being rebuilt. It’s slow work, and it’s not perfect. But it seems as if fighting against a tyrannical Nahid and her Scourge at least served one purpose: instead of spending their time fighting amongst each other, the tribes spend more time trying to restore the city together.” 

Dara tried to keep his expression as stoic as possible, and he swallowed the lump forming in his throat. He hated himself for it. He hated what he had done, how far he had allowed it to go, how late he was in stopping it. The saviors of Daevabad. Sometimes the guilt of it knocked the breath out of him, and so, he could not find the strength in himself to respond. Mercifully, Qasim kept speaking. “The Banu Nahida spends most of her time at the hospital, and Baga Jamshid rarely leaves her side. If I am honest with you, my friend, I had never thought it possible that the city would recover but praise be to God… it is healing.”

After a moment, Dara cleared his throat. “And the Qahtani princes?”

“Emir Muntadhir seems to have retired. The younger prince - though I suppose they’re not princes anymore - is in and out of the city, but he is on the Council and overlooks… the economics… truly, I couldn’t tell you. I do not care for politics much.” 

“Has she remarried?” The question burst forth from his lips before he could stop himself, and he cursed himself for the slip. Qasim appraised him closely.

“Banu Nahri? No, not yet.” He had instinctively tensed while waiting for the response, but the knot in his stomach loosened. Dara let out a shaky breath, aware that all his composure had broken in front of the djinn who was now watching him with open curiosity. “There were _rumors_ that she would, but those died a long time ago.”

Dara pushed back his chair and Qasim watched him get to his feet. “I travel west tomorrow,” he said, gathering his jacket from the empty seat beside him. “Despite my earlier behavior, I must admit I enjoyed your company.” He hesitated before he held out a hand. Qasim smiled and shook it.

“I leave for Daevabad tomorrow as well. Would you travel with me until we need to go our own way?” Qasim asked earnestly. Dara pondered the thought for a minute. He would not be able to travel on the wind if he had a companion so it would be slow-going, but truly, what could be the harm? And if he was honest, he wanted to hear more about Daevabad from someone who lived there. Not the city he had known a millennia ago, but the one he had returned to, the one that was being rebuilt even as they spoke.

He nodded. Qasim clapped his hands together with a grin plastered to his face. Dara smiled back. “You won’t tell me your name, but I have to call you something.”

Dara donned his jacket, and wracked his mind for a Daeva name… any Daeva name. “You can call me Artash,” he said before setting off into the night.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dara takes the ring he found to the cave at the Gozan.

_ He was there again. He was dragged there often by his traitorous mind, and no amount of time or distractions or prayers seemed to keep him away for long. He was looking at a garden, blackened with soot and destroyed seemingly beyond repair, fiery creatures swirling in the sky above him. He watched as they gnashed their teeth of flames at an already injured shedu. He watched it all from behind eyes that no longer belonged to him, in a body that no longer did his bidding. He couldn’t move; the roots holding him in place were too strong. He could feel his body try to untangle himself, even as he screamed at it to stop, to give in... _

_ And amidst it all stood the woman he loved, defiant and tall. Her eyes, coal black and feverishly bright, her hair fanned around her face, wild and untamed. Loose strands of hair splayed themselves across her cheeks, her forehead, her lips. All he could do was watch with wide eyes as she drew an icy blade and held it up. Do it, he whispered. She seemed to hesitate, her eyes scanning his face. The blade trembled in her hands, and Dara growled in frustration… because she would not do it. He could see it on her face.  _

_ “Let my shedu go,” she begged. _

_ Do it, Dara screamed in his mind. Kill me.  _ Now _! _

_ “I cannot disobey Banu Manizheh,” were the words that left his mouth instead.  _

_ “Stop saying that,” she shouted. “Call off those beasts or I’ll kill you.” _

_ He met her gaze again, imploring, pleading even as his magic worked to scorch the roots holding him back from her. And then another burst of flame, the stink of smoke, and a dozen more beasts arose to battle her shedu.  _

_ “Why are you doing this to me?” She asked, her voice cracking. _

_ I am not, Dara silently begged, thinking furiously. Why couldn’t she see? He had to make her get it. “Because I  _ cannot _ disobey her. I  _ cannot _ speak against her. Do you understand? Nahri, I need you to understand.” Her face seemed to collapse in on itself as her shedu let out another pained screech, before she closed the distance between them. And Dara closed his eyes, willing her to do it, willing her to plunge the blade deep into his heart and end this once and for all. _

_ A crack of thunder. A flash before his closed eyes, and then her body slammed into his, pushing him to the ground. His eyes opened in time to see her hold out a protective arm over him, a collapsing tree falling, falling, falling on them, before she turned it to ash. _

_ Oh, little thief, Dara thought, his heart breaking. And then he was free and he was coming for her, and the voice inside his head began to scream again. _

*

“Wake up!” Someone was shaking him, voice urgent and loud. “Artash, wake up.” He woke, and he did not know where he was or who he was with or why he was being called his father’s name. Disoriented, Dara did what he did best. As deadly and swift as a tiger, he pulled his weapon and whirled on the intruder, pushing him to the ground, khanjar at his throat. The man yelped, but went deathly still under Dara’s blade, fear clouding his eyes.

Dara appraised him for a long while, heart pounding in his chest, his past self’s screams still echoing in his ears. Then, came the recognition. He dropped the blade as quickly as he had drawn it, and pulled himself away from Qasim. Guilt was already gnawing at him before he opened his mouth to speak.

“Forgive me, I… I did not recognize you.” Qasim watched Dara warily as he got to his feet, dusting his clothes off. 

“You were thrashing about in your sleep,” Qasim said, readjusting his turban. “I debated whether or not to wake you, but I thought I would want to be dragged out from a dream like that. Now,” he touched his neck as if to check it was still there. “Now, I’m not so sure.” Dara dropped his eyes.

“No, I am glad you did,” he said softly. “If it happens in the future, perhaps put my weapons out of reach before you wake me.” 

Qasim laughed, bemused. “Somehow, I don’t think that will work. You look the type to be able to kill someone with your bare hands. Snap their neck, strangle them, turn them inside out, who knows?” Dara grimaced. Turning people inside out was perhaps the only way he had not killed someone. Pushing that morbid thought out of his head, he got to his feet.

“The Gozan is not far. Perhaps a day’s ride from here. That is where I’ll part ways with you,” he said, scratching his horse’s nose affectionately. He’d bought the black-coated mare in Agnivansha, and although he would not need her after he and Qasim went their separate ways, he quite liked having her around. He’d always gotten along better with horses than he had with other people, after all.

Dara’s pack was slung across its flank, and he retrieved a sugar cube from its depths and fed it to the animal, who whinnied in approval. The pack contained the money he had made from selling a portion of the jewels he’d taken, the remaining jewels he’d kept to sell at a later time, and the various things he’d gathered to take back to Yaqub. Dried chaangeri, as much as he could find, was stuffed into a pocket along with a strange indigo paste he had overheard two humans in Agnivansha swear by to help alleviate something called ‘constipation.’ Dara did not know if it would be any use to the apothecarist, but what could possibly be the harm?

The ring, however, was kept firmly within an inner pocket of his jacket. Periodically, Dara tapped his chest to make sure it was still there. He would be damned if he would ever let whoever this person was back into a power-hungry human’s hands.

Qasim opened his pack and handed Dara a piece of bread. He took it, and closed his eyes, calling upon his magic to conjure up something a little more appetizing from the meager piece of dry bread. Daevas and djinn living in isolation, in mountains and desolate deserts, were well-versed in this sort of magic, but Dara was not. He was able to do it simply because he had far more magic, magic that was more powerful, than any other of his race. But he’d lied and told Qasim that he’d learned it from his relatives from northern Daevastana.

What he handed back to the other man, after taking half for himself, was a flatbread, seasoned with spice and dried herbs. It was something one of his aunts used to make for him as a boy. 

“Are you certain you do not want to visit Daevabad?” When Dara did not respond, he went on. “It seems that you are attached to the city and have not returned in a while, what with all the questions you’ve asked me along the journey. Odd that you’d come so close and not even look upon it.” 

_ If only I could _ , Dara thought to himself. “Daevabad is not going anywhere,” he responded, knowing that it was a weak answer. “I have other places to be.” Dara dusted his hands, crumbs of the flatbread floating to the ground before he mounted his horse. Qasim followed his lead, and they set off into the dawn light.

It did, indeed, only take them a day to reach the Gozan. As the sound of the tumultuous river got louder, Dara’s heart seemed to leap in his chest. When they reached the base of the cliffs he remembered so clearly from all those years ago, they dismounted. Dara looked at the opposite bank of the river. Even if he hadn’t been what he was, he would not have been able to see Daevabad from beyond the veil, but he looked anyway. Somewhere, not far from him and yet too far to ever reach, was his home. His city.  _ Nahri _ . 

“Looks like I leave you here, my friend” Qasim said. Dara would never admit it to the man, but he was sad to see him leave. He held out a hand, and Qasim shook it before pulling him into a good-natured half-hug. Dara tensed at the unfamiliar gesture, before he clapped him on the back, touched at truly being considered a friend.

Qasim mounted his horse, and turned towards where the Gozan could be crossed. “I hope to see you again, Afshin.”

Dara froze, and Qasim let out a bark of laughter. “How-” he started, but Qasim waved off the question.

“You’ve covered your family’s mark up well, and if you didn’t talk in your sleep or if I had not been from Daevabad, I would never have known. A traveler with green eyes, a slave mark with more lines than I can count, and nights murmuring Banu Nahri’s name in his sleep… come, now. I am not foolish.” He gave Dara a smile. “I do not hold any ill will for you, I want you to know that. You do not seem like the monster I once thought you were.”

Dara blinked back the sheen of wetness brimming in his eyes, but if Qasim saw, he did not comment. Dara gave him a nod, speechless, unable to think of anything to say. The djinn seemed to understand, and turned his horse around, trotting away from Dara’s form.

“May the fires burn brightly for you, Darayavahoush.”

He carried those words and his name up to the cave, clutching the ring tightly in his fist. When he reached the alcove he had sheltered in with Nahri, where their lips had met for the first and last time, where he’d been happier than he’d ever been before or after, he paused at its opening. Steeling himself, he entered and moved softly to the back where the vessel would be safest from the elements.

He had placed the ring carefully in a cloth bundle on the floor when something white caught his eye. It was something papery peeking out from underneath a rock. Dara carefully lifted it, and snatched up the thick envelope. It was sealed with golden wax on which a shedu throne was imprinted. He turned it and exhaled noisily, because on the back was an Afshin mark, matching the one on his left temple precisely. 

Dara broke the seal, and opened the envelope. There were pages upon pages of writing tucked neatly inside, completely undecipherable to him. He recognized the script as Divasti, but nothing beyond that; Afshins were never taught to read or write, after all. But  _ this _ … this was meant for him. And it was from his Banu Nahida. If he’d ever been sure of anything in his life, it was this. 

Dara tucked the envelope into the inner pocket of his jacket, the one the slave vessel had just occupied. He did not yet know what Nahri’s words said, but one day, he would read them himself to see what it was she wanted to tell him. That was the vow Dara made to himself as the wind howled around him, and he set off west with another mission driving him forth.


	4. Interlude

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Interlude: Nahri e-Nahid receives a visitor.

Nahri wiped the sweat from her brow and blew a wisp of curly hair out of her eyes. She gripped her scalpel in a sweaty palm, looking down at the djinn woman splayed out in front of her. She did not know exactly what was wrong with her, but it was probably safe to assume that the skin of her chest should not have simply... turned transparent, showcasing the black blood, bones and nerves underneath. The woman had said she’d drank something expensive in the Grand Bazaar after a merchant had sold it to her, assuring her it would give her a child. Instead, she’d seen her skin growing transparent, inch by inch. Nahri would cut in and investigate, though understanding the inner machinations of curses still eluded her. It seemed as if every day, despite having spent over nine years in this city as a healer, she was facing something new.

After cutting in, Nahri sensed a thick, sludgy liquid slowly moving through the woman’s body. She placed both hands on her chest, and _pulled_ , the liquid obeying her command albeit reluctantly. She held it in the air as one of her students rushed forth to capture it in a flask. Then, Nahri willed the woman’s skin to expand and stretch and cover the translucent patch of skin under her hands. When it was done, she gave a nod to her student, who put a waking potion to the djinn woman’s mouth. She sputtered awake.

“My God, you’ve done it!” She exclaimed. Nahri removed her gloves, and fixed the woman with a stern look.

“You should know not to drink liquids offered by strange merchants in the middle of the night at the Bazaar,” she scolded. “It could have been anything! This, at least, seemed mostly harmless.”

Her patient gathered her shawl and draped it around herself, giving Nahri a sheepish look. “I am usually not so foolish, Banu Nahri, but what can you do? I am desperate for a child.” As her face fell, Nahri felt a pang of sympathy for the woman— and other djinn like her who had such a hard time conceiving. “Is there nothing you can do to help?”

Nahri stepped forward and took the woman’s hand, who gripped it tight. “I have looked into it, and have had other people look into it. One day, if a way to speed up this process for pure-blooded djinn exists, I will find it.” With a watery smile, the woman patted Nahri’s hand and left. 

She’d just washed her hands and taken a seat when there was a knock on the door. “What is it?” Nahri called, stretching her limbs and hearing undignified snaps coming from her joints. The door opened and Jamshid walked into the infirmary. One look at his apologetic face had Nahri groaning.

“If you make me get up from this chair, I _will_ stab you.” She gave the scalpels sitting beside her a pointed look.

“Sister, I would pay you to stab me if it meant I would stop having to listen to Alizayd drone on about the hospital’s finances.” Nahri laughed at that, but stopped at the grim look on Jamshid’s face. 

“What is it? What’s wrong?” She was up and wrapping her chador around her before he could reply.

“There is a man in the courtyard asking to speak with you,” he said, as they began to walk side-by-side out of the infirmary. “An Agnivanshi who said he returned to Daevabad from a trip last night.”

“Jamshid, you’ve gotten much better at healing, and can work just fine on your own. You needn’t have called m—“

“He’s not sick,” Jamshid cut in. At her confusion, he cleared his throat. “He said it’s about the Afshin.”

Nahri froze and turned to her brother, the blood draining from her face. “ _Dara_?” They stood there for a moment, looking at each other. Him concerned, her... she didn’t know how she felt. Her heartbeat pounded in her ears, mind whirring with confusion. “What could he possibly have to say about him?”

“He would not tell me. Perhaps he spotted the Afshin somewhere and thought someone in Daevabad should know where he is; after all, everyone here believes he escaped.”

“But why me? Why not go to Wajed or Ali and alert the Royal Guard?” Jamshid shrugged, looking as lost as she felt. She realized then that her hand was clawed tightly on his arm, as if holding him for balance. She let go, swallowing. Then, she turned and almost ran to the courtyard.

The man waiting for her, standing amidst the newly rebuilt entrance of the hospital, straightened when he saw her walk in. He stood with his hands tied behind his back, a black turban perched on his brow. No weapons that she could see, just a curious face looking back at her from underneath thick brows. She suspected the curiosity was mirrored on her own face. The courtyard was bustling with life: workers, patients and visitors all going in and out of the building. Some patted her shoulder as they walked past, others uttered a respectful greeting. Whatever this man had to say, he would not be able to say it here.

“Peace be upon you,” she said in Agnivanshi, before asking for him to follow her back into the building. She led him to her office, where they would be able to talk with ease. Seated behind her desk and gesturing for him to take a seat, Nahri put up a veneer of nonchalance before she spoke. “Baga Jamshid said you had something to say to me, _sahab.”_

“I am no _sahab_ , Banu Nahri,” he smiled at her, sitting back with an ease that most djinn still did not feel in the presence of a Nahid. “My name is Qasim Imran. I returned to the city last night after having been away for a few weeks. I live here in Daevabad and own a shop in the Agnivanshi quarter, but I frequent Agnivansha often because that is where I grew up, and that is where my father still lives. He owns a mango farm.”

“I love mangoes,” Nahri interrupted, liking the comfortable openness with which Qasim spoke. She had interacted with so many people over the years, always looking at them with shrewd suspicion, noticing the way they evaded her gaze and tried to tell her as little as possible. But Qasim had laid out his life in front of her without any hint of deception. “Your quarters have the best ones.” She offered him a small smile even as her stomach flipped with uncertainty, not knowing what he was about to say. 

“The last person I spoke to about my father’s farm seemed like he would rather grind me into a pulp than hear me talk about fruit,” Qasim laughed, a twinkle in his eye. “If the Afshin lives up to his fearsome reputation in anything, it is his temper.” Nahri’s pulse quickened, the careful mask she had donned slipping for an instant, before she reconstructed it. She leaned forward on her elbows.

“The Afshin? He escaped.” The lie came to her quickly. As much as she hated the idea of all of Daevabad thinking he had purposely fled justice, perhaps it was best that they did not know one of their ruling Nahids had fallen to pieces as she watched him leave.

“For someone who is supposedly on the run, he had no qualms about coming so close to Daevabad’s borders,” Qasim argued. 

“He was _here_?” Nahri heard her voice crack. He had been so close and yet so far. She clenched her fist underneath the table. “Tell me how you met him. Tell me what happened.”

She listened to Qasim speak fondly of a sullen man who called himself Artash, sitting alone in a tavern, whispering Daevabad’s name as if it were a prayer. Of shaking his hand and agreeing to travel with him. Of long conversations in which Qasim answered the Afshin’s many questions about this new Daevabad that Nahri had built, as he in turn spoke about the wilds of Daevastana and a family he no longer had. Her heart broke for Dara as she pictured him smiling, spinning half-truths to Qasim about his father, his mother and his little sister of all. _Oh, Afshin... all alone in the world, lost and unmoored_.

“How did you know it was him?” she asked when Qasim had finished his story. At that, he shifted in his chair, looking embarrassed.

“Forgive me if this is inappropriate, Banu Nahri, but he asked about you often. He would ask questions about the different tribal quarters, because he said he’d never had a chance to look outside of the Daeva residences. He’d ask about the council and the Grand Temple, the Qahtanis and the shafit. But most of all, he would ask of you.” Nahri’s face grew hot as Qasim spoke. “It was not difficult to connect his curiosity about you to his slave appearance.”

After a moment’s silence, Nahri swallowed back the lump growing in her throat. “You speak about him as you would about a friend.” It wasn’t a question.

Qasim gave Nahri another smile, his eyes creasing around the corners. “If I am honest with you, Banu Nahida, when I first realized who he was, I wanted to slit his throat or run or both. It was not long after we set out from Fasl, and I would feel a pang of hatred every time I looked at him. I have no shame in admitting that the reason I did not kill him is because I could not fight off a child, let alone the most feared warrior in our history. But a few days after the knowledge of him being Darayavahoush e-Afshin settled in, I tried to look for the monster in him, the one that committed all those unspeakable crimes.” Nahri held her breath, eyes fixed on this amiable man’s face. “I could not find it.”

Unbidden, her eyes welled up and she got up before the man could see her tears fall. She turned and faced the window, looking out at a garden through blurred vision. It was a strange thing to feel so deeply about, but Nahri had never thought she would ever meet another who could look at Dara and not see a demon. How she felt about him was the one thing she kept locked in her chest, for who could she possibly tell? How could she possibly explain that no matter how hard she had tried since that night on the boat all those years ago, Dara had never stopped being _Dara_ to her. She felt a strong surge of affection and kinship for Qasim. 

“Where did he go?” she asked, turning back to face him. 

“He parted ways with me at the Gozan. He said that was as far as he would go.” _The cave_ , she thought. _By the Creator, had he found someone?_

Her gaze fell at a sheaf of parchment on her desk, and it dawned on her that she had sent something to be left for him in the cave. If he’d been there— and she was sure he had if he’d traveled all the way to the Gozan— he would have found it. Nahri still didn’t understand why she had written him all those letters, telling him the minutest, silliest details of her life— especially because he could not read. But she had, and it had felt better at the time, and it felt even better knowing that he now held it. 

She now voiced the question she had asked Jamshid earlier. “But why did you come here to tell _me_ all this?”

“Again, I do not mean to overstep, my lady... I try not to pay heed to rumors, for they are so often created to damage reputations— especially those of women, but I have always heard that you were close to the Afshin.” He held out his hands when Nahri bristled. “If I were you, I would want to know the whereabouts of someone I was once friends with,” he added quickly. “Nothing else. Besides, who else could I tell that I had befriended _him_?” He laughed at that, bemused at this unlikely turn of events.

“I am glad you came to me, Qasim,” she said, giving him a soft smile. “I don’t think I will ever see him again, but it is... good to hear news of him.” A pause. She felt it was time to end this conversation, for no matter how good-natured the Agnivanshi djinn was, she felt like she would fall apart in front of him and could not risk her entanglement with her broken Afshin becoming public knowledge. “Should you ever need anything, please feel free to come to me. I will not forget your kindness.” Qasim nodded before he pushed back his chair and got to his feet. 

“May the fires burn brightly for you, Banu Nahri,” he said, offering her the Daeva greeting. 

“Qasim?” she called as he opened the door. He turned back and she asked in an almost whisper, “Is he okay? Did he seem... well?” One side of his lips quirked up in a sad smile.

“He is as well as someone can be, with the weight of so much guilt and remorse weighing them down,” he replied. “He does not sleep well, and the stories I used to hear from other djinn about an arrogant daeva seem to be a myth. But he jokes easily, and his tongue is sharp, and he’s passionate and affectionate about those he loves. And he seems like he has a purpose. So if he is not okay at the present, Banu Nahida, I believe one day... he _will_ be.” 

With that, he turned and left, and Nahri finally let her tears roll down her cheeks.

She sat at her desk, cradling her head in her hands. She’d thought of Dara every day since he had left, the sun-drenched image of him on their last day together imprinted on her eyelids. She’d made a vow to herself that day that this was the man she would remember, and it was. That was _her_ Dara. The one who had taught her to throw a knife, the one who laughed freely and exchanged sharp-tongued quips with her that made her both roll her eyes and smile at once. The one who had stolen her heart, and even now, was somewhere out in the world walking around with it in his hands. Sometimes she would sit poring over books, trying to find the method to free slaves when she’d stop in her tracks and wonder what he was doing. The thought of him being alone always chafed at her heart- a persistent chafe that reminded her of all those years she had spent alone on the streets of Cairo. Nobody should have to be alone. For now, she found solace in the fact that he had made a friend. A djinn friend! She chuckled softly to herself, picturing the Dara from a decade ago. He would have been scandalized at the prospect of befriending a djinn. 

By the Creator, she wanted to see him again. Wanted to see him smile and tell her another smokey tale of an age long gone. To wink at her and tease her. To touch her chador and kiss her fingers like he did in the forest. 

But he was gone, and that would never happen. 

Nahri sat there for a little while longer before she wiped her wet eyes and left her office to look for Jamshid. She found him seated outside her infirmary, and he seemed to be waiting for her. He jumped to his feet when he saw her approach, scanned her face before wordlessly pulling her into an embrace. 

“Find someone you trust with your life,” she said against his chest. “Tell them to go to that cave near the Gozan. Tell them there should be a slave vessel there. Tell them to bring them home.”


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Another trip to Cairo.

The second time Darayavahoush went to Cairo was immediately after he’d parted ways with Qasim at the Gozan River. He had a plan in mind, and after giving Nahri’s friend the supplies he’d asked for, he would set out to achieve this plan. Sometimes he would chide himself; he had no time to fall victim to romantic whims. So what if he could not read Nahri’s letter to him? He had more important things to do, and he was running out of time… and then, he would catch himself. Because time was the only thing Dara was not running out of. So, what was a little detour?

Sauntering through the Cairene streets, hands clasped tightly behind him, Dara made his way to the small apothecary he’d visited almost half a year ago now. The street was just as noisy as last time, humans shuffling hurriedly around him, speaking their human tongues and not paying him any mind. A few times, he thought he saw someone fix their gaze on him, but when he’d look back in surprised delight, they’d look right through him. He didn’t think he would ever get used to this: gliding through human streets like a wraith, silent and invisible. Not for the first time, he thought about how much he disliked this, this state of non-being.

Dara pushed the apothecary door open, almost crashing into a young man who’d been stocking the baskets closest to the door. “Oh,” Dara blurted out before he could stop himself. The man’s eyes widened as Dara probably popped into existence before him. “Is Yaqub around?” The young man frowned at him, looking him over once.

“He’s in the back.” With that, he left through a door on the back wall, calling for his “abba,” and Dara stood there, in the middle of the shop, awkwardly looking around. A minute later, Yaqub was there, looking around in absolute bewilderment.

“Peace be upon you,” Dara spoke. He didn’t think he would ever get used to humans being so startled when they became aware of his presence. The old man peered accusingly over his spectacles and clutched the counter with a wrinkled hand. Dara felt like a child being chided by his grandfather, and he rubbed the back of his neck self-consciously. “I apologize for always startling you.”

“Have I met you before?” Yaqub wondered, looking closely at him. Before Dara could respond, the old man’s eyes raked over his exposed arms and he nodded. “Ah, yes, the strange traveler with the strange offer.” 

With a sheepish smile, Dara opened his pack and held out a heavy bag of chaangeri. “I was just passing by and had picked something up for you.” Yaqub closed the distance, holding the bag of dried herbs with a look of awe on his face.

“I thought it was a trick!” He exclaimed, smiling fondly at Dara now. “I never thought you would actually return.” Only after he’d shoved the bag in a drawer behind the counter, Dara remembered he had something else to give him. He pulled out the indigo paste he’d gotten from Agnivansha and held it out to Yaqub.

“I got this from a pharmacist near the Indus River, who said it couldn’t be found elsewhere in the world, so I brought some for you.” Yaqub held the paste and looked it over. He grabbed a pot from a nearby cupboard, squeezing some of it out. He gave it a sniff. Then, he guffawed with complete inelegance and Dara looked at him, startled.

“My boy, I suspect you were scammed,” Yaqub said. “I believe it is just a paste made from a berry of some kind along with some indigo dye.” Looking him over once, Yaqub added, “For someone who looks as ferocious as you, I would think it would be hard to swindle you out of money. Though, I suppose it depends on who the con-artist is. I knew someone once who could talk soldiers and nobles alike into handing over everything they owned.” 

At that, Dara swallowed. Those human soldiers and nobles stood no chance against the specific con-artist Yaqub was speaking of, not when Dara himself hadn’t. Suddenly, Yaqub was tottering over to his counter. He retrieved a key and bent down to a cupboard on the back wall of the shop.

“What are you doing?” Dara asked loudly.

“Paying you, of course,” Yaqub said as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.

“You need not do that,” he insisted, hurrying over to Yaqub’s side. Before he could open the cupboard, Dara placed his hand firmly on the wood and shook his head. “I told you before. I did not do it for payment, and I will not accept any from you.” Yaqub held Dara’s gaze for a long while, perhaps trying to unpuzzle why he was behaving the way he was. Then, he stepped back and gave Dara a small nod.

“No payment,” Yaqub said quietly. He pointed at a chair settled in front of the counter. “You. Sit there, and don’t move. If someone comes in, point one of those big knives at them and don’t let them steal anything.” Without waiting for a response, Yaqub went through the back door, leaving Dara alone in the shop for the second time that afternoon.

He heard someone ascending the stairs, and sounds of footsteps above his head as he looked around the small shop. It was not meticulously clean with vials and jars placed haphazardly on shelves, things hanging from the ceiling, and woven reed baskets placed near the door stuffed full with herbs and a yellow-tinged dust, but it seemed an organized sort of chaos. It smelled of herbs, mint and the earth. Moments later, Yaqub returned to the shop holding a tray with a teapot and two cups settled on it. Surprised, Dara sat up a little straighter, but Yaqub was looking around the shop again, as if he were looking for a ghost.

“You shouldn’t have,” Dara said, cringing when Yaqub squeaked, the tray shaking perilously in his hands.

“My eyes have completely failed me. You keep winking out of existence,” the old man tsked, placing the tea on the counter. Yaqub poured them both a cup of amber liquid, pushing it over with a bowl of dark brown halva. Not for the first time, Dara was touched at this stranger’s kindness; he reminded him so much of what he’d never had that he had to swallow to push down the lump rising in his throat. He couldn’t help but think of some alternate world where he wasn’t from a line of warriors, where his grandfather and father hadn’t expected him to pick up a bow sooner than he was able to walk. Perhaps in that world, Dara would have sat with his parents and grandparents, his gap-toothed little sister beside him, spending their days sharing a pot of tea and talking about mundane things.

“You are very kind,” Dara inclined his head respectfully and took a sip of his tea, and a bite of his halva. It was delicious. His thoughts wandered to Nahri and if she’d ever sat like this.

“Where are you from, son?” Yaqub asked, open curiosity on his face.

“Persia,” Dara answered, wracking his brain for the name humans called Daevastana. 

“You’re far from home.”

“I have been far from home for a long time,” Dara answered softly. Unsure why he was telling Yaqub this, he continued speaking. “There is very little for me there now, and no matter how much I want to return, sometimes I think it best to keep moving. So, I travel.”

“You have no parents? No wife?” Yaqub inquired, and Dara almost laughed as an unbidden memory flashed before his eyes: an exasperated Nahri laying back on a flying carpet, talking about a friend persistent on finding her a husband. How odd that he should be sitting here like this, speaking to this friend without her by his side. He felt a shadow of sadness take ahold of his heart then, and he took another bite of his halva.

“My parents died a long time ago, and I do not think marriage is suited for me,” he answered simply. “My aunts used to say when I was a teenager that I would break hearts, so I nobly decided I would never let that happen,” he winked and Yaqub laughed.

“Oho, so you’re not as serious as you seem,” he said to Dara, a twinkle in his eye.

“So, who do you live with?” Dara asked, looking around the apothecary once more.

“My wife. My children are married now and no longer live here, but they stop by once or twice a week to help out with the shop. You met my son,” he said, gesturing absentmindedly at the ceiling, where Dara assumed he lived. “The endless wars have had an adverse effect on all our finances, if I am honest… they tell me to stop worrying, that they’re old enough to take care of themselves, but kids never stop being your kids, no matter how old they get. And you never stop worrying.” After a moment’s silence, Yaqub continued speaking. “There was another once. A girl who used to live down the alley from here, nothing but skin and bones. Nahri, her name was.” Dara’s hand stilled on his spoon, which was on its way from his bowl to his mouth.

“Nahri,” he repeated, stupidly. Yaqub simply nodded.

“She was the fiercest, wildest, _smartest_ girl I have ever met,” he said, absentmindedly, as if he needed to make this girl’s existence known to someone else. “I met her when she was very young, and it took her a long time to trust that I would not harm her, but over time, she came to befriend me. I do not think I ever told her that I cared for her like I do for my children. Now, I don’t truly know where she is, but all I do is hope she is well. Safe.”

“Hopefully you will see her again one day,” Dara said quietly, hating himself for giving this kindly old man any hope. But at the same time, he wished more than anything that it was true. On their journey to Daevabad, Nahri had never stopped talking about Cairo, about how much she’d loved it here despite having such a difficult life. Now, she lived a life trapped in Daevabad, never being able to return even if she’d wanted to.

Dara drank the rest of his tea, and pushed back his chair, ready to depart. At that very moment, Yaqub’s son walked into the shop holding a bag which he promptly held out to his father. Yaqub got himself slowly to his feet, and handed Dara the bag. He looked inside only to find packages of food: a loaf of bread, crusted with garlic and herbs, along with some rice and more of the delicious halva he’d just had. 

“You would not take my money, so take this food,” Yaqub said, patting Dara gently on the arm. “I thank you for bringing me these supplies; it means more than you can know.” Dara nodded wordlessly, and slung the bag around his shoulders. 

“I do not know when I will be back next,” Dara said on his way to the door. “I have something I need to do, so it might be a while, but I hope to see you again, grandfather.”

“Peace be upon you,” Yaqub called back. When Dara was sure he had turned away, he slipped a ruby out from his pack and placed it carefully on the shelf closest to the door. 

  
  


*

The Daeva temple stood before him, plain and ordinary with nothing but two pillars framing its mahogany doors, small carvings of flames adorning their bases. Dara hesitated, asking himself yet again whether this was a good idea. He knew his reputation well, a reputation that had followed him closely during his time in Daevabad. His people had hailed him as a hero, but others had called him a monster. With his latest crimes, however, the blood fresh on his hands... would he be welcome _anywhere_? Steeling himself, he pushed open the temple doors and walked into a vast, white-tiled hallway where a Daeva priest was pouring oil onto a fire altar.

“May the fires burn brightly for you,” Dara greeted softly, tenting his hands and bowing deeply before the priest. It was as good a time as any to be honest about who he was; he had already vowed that if the priests and priestesses at the temple wanted him gone, he would leave. “I am Darayavahoush e-Afshin,” he introduced himself, touching his Afshin mark.

The small man before him paled, even as his black eyes narrowed to appraise Dara. After a long silence, he spoke. “We heard you were executed for your part in Banu Manizheh’s taking of Daevabad, may she rest in the shade of the Creator,” the priest replied. Dara was surprised, both by the misinformation of his death as well as the respect this daeva still held for Banu Manizheh. Though, he supposed longstanding tribal feuds and notions of reverence for the Nahid rulers did not disappear so quickly. He should know. Besides, he was here in northern Daevastana where most people were too far removed from the violence in Daevabad to give it much thought beyond who held power- whether it was one of their own or the enemy.

“I suspect I would have been executed had I stayed long in the city after Banu Manizheh’s death, but I left.” The priest put down the oil and motioned for Dara to follow him through a set of double doors. He obliged, and they entered into a room, its carpeted floor littered with cushions, the smell of frankincense strong in the air.

“I am Behrouz,” the priest said, taking a seat on one of the cushions and pointing Dara to another. Dara removed his pack, his bow and quiver of arrows before taking a seat. “Would you tell me what happened in the city? We do not get many travelers these days, and I can tell that not even the little information we have is entirely accurate.”

And so, Dara began to recount the grisly tale of Banu Manizheh’s short but devastating reign in Daevabad. As he spoke, Dara felt a heavy weight settle on his shoulders. He’d been so sure, so utterly certain when he’d met her that she could be the one to save their people, to save their city and bring it back to the glory of his time. He’d deluded himself for so long into thinking that he could be the one to keep her away from the path the ancient Nahids had started to walk, to keep her focused on making life safe for their people peacefully instead of letting long enmities continue to fester. He’d been a fool. A damned fool. Every day, he wished he’d put an arrow through her throat the moment he’d seen her. Even as that wish chipped another piece of his heart, one he’d given so wholly to his Nahids, he wished it anyway.

When he got to the murders of the Daeva nobles and his subsequent enslavement, Behrouz gasped, but the words kept spilling out of him. He told of Nahri’s return, quietly leaving out the fact that she had come with a prince at the head of a marid army; something told him that not many daevas - or djinn, for that matter - would be particularly fond of that detail. He told of outtalking Banu Manizheh and putting an end to her life. He blinked away the wetness brimming in his eyes, focusing his gaze on the patterned carpet. 

“When it was all over, I thought it best to leave. Vizaresh, the ifrit, escaped with many slave vessels in tow, and I’ve been attempting to track him and those vessels down. It’s proven difficult.”

After a long moment’s silence as Behrouz seemed to process everything he’d just been told, he asked, “What brings you here, Afshin?” 

“Forgive me, but could you call me by my name?” Dara said in a soft voice. “It seems sacrilege to say, but that title has brought me and others little else but despair.” Behrouz smiled sadly at him, giving his leg a gentle pat. “I have a favor to ask. Should my presence here be too much trouble or the favor too much, please let me know and I will leave. When I was younger, I was never taught to read or write. In over fourteen centuries of existence, I never considered learning because what was the need? But now, I have more time on my hands than I can imagine, and this job I’ve tasked myself with is proving difficult. Perhaps learning to read would help with it. There’s bound to be some information in books or ancient scrolls on how to find slave vessels, how to free them. And I know Daeva priests and priestesses are always taught how to read and write Divasti, at the very least.”

It was the truth, even if he’d left out the thing that had pushed him into this line of thought. The letters Nahri had written to him seemed to burn against his chest, but Dara did not want to divulge that secret quite yet, even if it was the primary motive for his seeking literacy. Behrouz gave a laugh, eyes creasing at their corners, startling Dara.

“You want us to teach you to read and write? By the Creator, if someone had told me Darayavahoush e-Afshin would walk into our temple and ask me to be his teacher!”

“I do not mean you any trouble,” Dara hastened to add. “I could carry out tasks for you, ones that you need done swiftly. I do not even have to stay here— I’ll find some place else and come back whenever it is convenient—“

Behrouz raised a hand and Dara fell quiet. “I can give you a room. Come.” He rose swiftly to his feet, gesturing Dara to follow him. He was led down the first hallway, took a right turn through another set of doors, up a flight of stairs and into another hallway lined with rooms. Dara was taken to one in the very back. It was bare, with nothing but a plain bed and a table. “You can sleep here,” Behrouz said.

“Who lives in the other rooms? Other priests?” Dara asked, his curiosity getting the better of him.

“The priests and priestesses live in another wing of the temple. This,” he gestured at the hallway, “is where we house the orphaned and lost children who often show up at our doorstep.” So, here he was, sharing housing with a bunch of children. “They go to school nearby, so perhaps you can find some extra help through them.” Behrouz’s eyes glimmered with amusement as Dara scowled.

“I will not sit here and be taught by children,” he mumbled, affronted as he pictured himself being scolded by a child who couldn’t be taller than his waist.

“You will be taught by whoever teaches you,” Behrouz responded sternly. “Go take a bath, and then come find me. I will introduce you to the others, then give you your first job. Your lessons begin tomorrow.”


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dara lives a quiet life at the temple.

Dara sat cross-legged on the floor next to his teacher for the evening, who was sprawled belly-down on the carpet, sucking on a candy and doing her schoolwork. She was a twelve year old orphan with red-ribboned pigtails and a goofy smile. If anyone had walked in and seen the legendary Afshin warrior hunched over a scroll, pen held clumsily in hand, growling in frustration at the child-like symbols he was making, they would have simply gaped. But he’d been living on an almost-regular basis at this temple for a year now, and people were getting used to having him around.

“Jaleh, is this right?” He pushed his scroll under her nose, annoyed at himself. By the Creator, he could notch an arrow to a bow and shoot a man in the eye in a second flat; he could wield a khanjar and a sword in each hand with the utmost precision, but a pen? A pen was the bane of his damned existence. Jaleh squinted down at his writing, his penmanship awkward and clumsy even now.

“Mm no, you mixed up the symbols, Dara,” she replied, taking her pen and making another symbol underneath his with a much more refined hand. A pang of envy shot through him. “You wrote ‘coconut’ instead of ‘zahhak.’ The symbols are really similar.”

“Why on earth are the symbols for coconut and zahhak similar?” He asked, completely baffled. He snatched the scroll away and attempted to replicate the marks she’d made on the paper. Jaleh shrugged, going back to her schoolwork. A knock at the door made them both look up and a daeva boy, not much older than Jaleh, ran inside.

“The fence broke and the animals are running away,” Navid exclaimed. Dara was on his feet and out the door in the blink of an eye, Navid and Jaleh trailing along behind him, as fast as their legs would take them.

“How did the fence  _ break _ ?” Dara asked, exasperated. Ever since he’d moved into the tiny room upstairs, he’d become the temple’s errand boy of sorts. Little things like tending to the cattle, cleaning the temple, maintaining the altars and gardens were chores given to the children. Dara, however, found himself going on supply runs to villages on the outskirts of Daevastana, or using magic to add more flair and space to the temple, or maintenance that would take someone else longer to do, but mere seconds for him because of his magic. 

Emerging onto the sprawling green grounds of the temple, Dara noticed that the wooden fence had indeed broken. “Was someone hanging off it?” He asked incredulously, seeing the temple’s cattle fleeing as if there was a rukh coming to eat them. Navid flushed, and Dara couldn’t help but laugh. Oh, the trouble him and his cousins would get to as children. He called on his magic, letting it rush through his veins, then willed the broken wooden fragments of the fence to piece themselves back together. When a goat slammed into the now-reformed fence and let out a disgruntled bleat at having its escape foiled, Dara changed into his true form to more easily pursue the animals that had escaped. With that, he set off, jumping over the fence with ease.

The first time he’d shifted in someone else’s presence, it had been in front of Behrouz alone, who had insisted that Dara stop hiding from who he was. He’d had years now to come to terms with it, to teach himself that just because he looked like an ifrit didn’t mean he was one. Every day, it got a little easier. To the priest’s credit, he’d barely flinched at Dara’s transformation, simply taking in his claws and fangs with wide-eyed fascination. Then, he’d smiled and said, “Hiding from it won’t make it go away, Darayavahoush. Do something good with it instead.”

The second time he’d shifted - three months ago - had been more  _ dangerous _ . It could have turned lethal if Dara hadn’t been able to control himself in time. He’d been having one of his nightmares, thrashing in his sleep as he often did. Jaleh had burst into his room in the middle of the night after hearing pained groans and thumps coming from inside, rushing to his side and shaking him awake with a small hand. For some reason, Dara had awoken feeling like his limbs were submerged in ice with a fierce pain obliterating his head, sensing a danger that was not even there. Instinctively, he’d shifted into his form, calling on his magic even as he did so. With fire crackling down his arms, he’d whirled around - only to look into a round, terrified face on the body of a small girl, who had fallen onto her back in alarmed fright. Jaleh’s mouth had been open as if a scream had frozen on its way out. At first he hadn’t recognized her, and foolishly, a single name had dropped from his lips.

“ _ Tamima _ ?” As soon as he’d said it, he knew it wasn’t true and even as recognition flooded back into him, Dara swiftly turned back into his mortal form and dropped to his knees in front of Jaleh. He brought his hands together in front of her, guilt-wracked and hating himself for how she was looking at him now. Creator, he could have killed her. Snuffed out her life before she would have had time to scream. “Jaleh, it’s me. It’s  _ me _ , Dara. I’m so sorry.”

For a long moment, Jaleh had simply stared at him and Dara, too, had sat in utter silence. He was scared that the slightest movement would have her skittering away, and he knew he would not have been able to bear that. These children… he’d grown so fond of them, all of them reminding him of the little sister he’d once had and lost. Jaleh, especially. She sat beside him and told him of her day at school before helping him read, and he’d sneak candies to her when the priests weren’t looking. Heart pounding in his chest, Dara had simply looked at her, helpless, feeling like a little boy himself.

Then, she’d straightened up. She’d reached out a hand and touched his face, as if checking it was flesh and not whatever she’d seen when he’d looked like a monster from her nightmares. “How did you do that?” She’d whispered, pulling her hand back.

“It is something I can do,” he’d replied, deciding that honesty was perhaps the best way to go. “Sometimes when I have nightmares or think I am in trouble, I shift without thinking. It is still me, and I would never hurt you. I  _ promise _ .” He’d said, trying to keep the note of pleading out of his voice.

“Can I see you do it again?” She’d asked. Dara had looked at her, startled by the question. When he began to shake his head, she sat up. “Oh, please, Dara! I just want to see.”

“I do not want to frighten you again.”

“I won’t be frightened this time, because I know it’ll be you! Please!” Alas, stubborn children had always been a weakness of his and Dara had nodded grimly, stood up and shifted into his form. This time, Jaleh looked at him with wonder instead of fear, inching closer. Then, slowly, curiously, she’d reached out - and before Dara could stop her, she’d touched one of his claws with a small finger. With her finger still touching his claw-tipped coal black ones, she’d looked up and grinned. “ _ Awesome _ .”

The very next day, she’d told all the other children. He supposed he couldn’t blame her, and if anything, it had helped because they’d come bouncing up to him, begging him to show them. After much coaxing, he’d obliged. He’d shifted to surprised gasps and then… applause. He was so stunned at that reception, he’d thrown back his head and laughed - a full-bodied laugh that he didn’t know he’d had in him anymore. That little children could see his true form and not run the other way cemented in him the truth he’d been trying for so long to hammer into himself: he was not inherently a monster. It had felt like a weight had fallen off his shoulders as he’d laughed in that moment.

After Dara had grabbed the various animals that had escaped and returned them safely to the temple’s grounds, he decided to go to the village nearby for a drink. He visited often; for one, sometimes it was nice to get away from the gaggle of children always in the temple - and he did not like drinking in front of them. But more importantly, sometimes, he would hear snatches of information he would never have heard if he’d stayed cooped up in the temple.

A few months after having arrived here, Dara had come to the village after one of the temple priests had tasked him with obtaining some special cedar oil. He had purchased the oil and was examining a shop window where wooden blocks had been bewitched, switching constantly between the forms of various creatures. He was considering buying one for each of the eight children back at the temple when he’d overheard a peculiar conversation.

“-town leveled to the ground,” a daeva woman had been saying quietly to her companion, her dark eyes shimmering with unshed tears. “They say the human who did it was an upjumped noble with no real power. No army, not much wealth, no support or influence. We all know why he was able to do this.” Dara clenched his fists and marched over to the two women, who startled at his approach. They took in his emerald eyes, the bow at his back and the dagger at his waist and let out a surprised gasp.

“I am sorry to interrupt, my ladies,” Dara had begun politely, sounding out his words carefully as to assure them that he was not a crazed ex-slave. “I did not mean to overhear your conversation, but I am curious as to what town you were talking about.”

“Pazkha,” the daeva woman replied. “East from here.” Thanking them, Dara had ducked into an alley and shifted into his formless self, rushing back to the temple to gather the rest of his weapons. It had taken him several hours of flying to get to the town - another city like the one he’d seen in Agnivansha, leveled to the ground. The man who had done it had set up camp not far away, and Dara had become his shadow, roaming constantly around his camp. Waiting.

As much as he would have loved to, he could not simply kill the human. He had to wait for him to make a mistake, a misstep that would leave him dead for Dara to then swoop down and take back the emerald-jeweled bangle that shone from the human’s wrist. The opportunity came two weeks after Dara had found the camp; a loud scream had pierced the air, jolting him from his sleep. He’d scrambled to his feet, taking to the wind immediately for a better view of whatever was happening on the ground. Men were rushing into the human slaver’s tent, shouting in a human tongue Dara did not know.

Quietly, he’d descended to the ground, twisting his way through the human bodies now running around in confused panic. He ducked into the tent, seeing what he knew he would. The human was sprawled on the floor on his back, his throat slit. Dara’s gaze immediately settled on the bangle, and when he was sure his men were distracted, he pulled it from the human’s wrist and tucked it safely into his pocket.

Now, the bangle was back in his room in a drawer with his Banu Nahida’s letter. A letter he still had not read. 

He was sitting at a table now outside a dimly lit tavern. The night was cool, the wind caressing his face. He asked for a glass of wine and a bag of yazdi cakes he would take back to the children. Dara knew he could conjure anything he wanted to eat or drink, but if he were honest, it felt nice to be living a normal life. To sit under a sky dappled with stars and sip a wine someone else had made, to eat something he had paid for. To be just another daeva walking through marketplaces and listening to languid conversations. He suspected he would not feel ordinary for a very long time, if ever, but days like this - filled with him questioning whether literacy was even worth it and sitting sprawled at a table on a busy street - he felt that one day he might get there.

When he arrived back at the temple, Jaleh was sat on the stairs, looking forlorn. “What’s wrong with you?” he asked, taking a seat beside her, pulling at one of her pigtails.

“Priest Behrouz wants to speak with you,” she said. “He said you might have to go somewhere.” Dara frowned at that, wondering where it was Behrouz wanted to send him.

“What of it? He probably wants me to go get him something obscure from some obscure part of Daevastana I would never have set foot in.” He feigned annoyance, but truthfully, he liked these excursions.

“But sometimes you go away for a long time,” she said. Dara was so touched, he could barely speak for a moment. He didn’t think anyone alive missed him in his absence, but here Jaleh was, pouting at the thought of him leaving. Dara smiled to himself.

“Let me go speak with him, and if it’s not something dangerous...” Dara said as he got to his feet. “You can come with me.” Jaleh looked up at him with wide eyes.

“Truly?”

“Truly.” He handed her the bag of cakes. She immediately stuffed one in her mouth. “Don’t eat them all; go share.” As she hurried off inside the temple, Dara set off to meet Behrouz. He found the priest sitting in the room off the main hallway, sipping orange-spiced tea. A scroll sat beside him on one of the cushions and Dara frowned at it. “You wanted to see me?” he asked, taking a seat.

“I received some correspondence from Daevabad,” Behrouz said casually, as if the name of his city wasn’t sending Dara’s heart spiraling out of control. 

“Is everything alright? What’s happened?” He asked anxiously.

“Everything is  _ fine _ , Darayavahoush,” Behrouz said, waving Dara’s concerns away with a hand. “It’s from Kartir.”

“ _ Kartir _ ?” He was baffled. Why would the priest be in touch with Kartir?

“Truthfully, when you mentioned that you knew him from your time in Daevabad the first day I met you, I wrote to him,” Behrouz began softly, almost imploringly. “I have met Kartir on my pilgrimages to Daevabad, if only fleetingly. I asked him about you, if it was wise to keep you here. If it was  _ safe _ .” 

That stung, and Dara tried to keep his face impassive - but he knew he couldn’t blame Behrouz. Not when he was housing children under his roof along with the Scourge of Qui-zi. He flinched at the thought; he had not referred to himself as that in a while. Behrouz, however, seemed to notice that this declaration had had an effect. “You are a smart man, Dara. You understand why I did it. I did not wish to turn you away, not after everything you told me, but I had to make sure. Kartir vouched for you, though. He seems to be quite fond of you.” At that, Dara felt himself smile.

“Does he need something?”

“No, but he told me that Jamshid e-Pramukh is in Zariaspa for a little while.” Dara’s breath caught in his throat, the face of the kind, earnest young man swimming into view before him. “Kartir thought that maybe you would like to visit him.”

“I doubt he will want to see me,” Dara said after a while. “I almost killed  _ him _ and  _ did _ kill his mother.”

“Either way,” Behrouz said kindly, tapping him gently over his heart. “If  _ you _ would like to visit him, you should. Learn to go after things  _ you _ want, Darayavahoush. You’ve wasted enough time doing what others expect of you.” 

For a long moment, Dara sat there in the priest’s presence, who simply continued to sip his tea. “Alright,” he said, getting to his feet. “I’m taking Jaleh.”

“Why on earth-” Behrouz began before Dara gave him a lopsided grin.

“She’s my teacher, and I  _ want _ to take her, Behrouz,” he said. “You can’t take back your words so soon.” The priest gaped at him, then barked out a laugh. He clapped Dara on the shoulder affectionately.

“That child is a menace. You take care of her, then.”

Dara bowed his head and touched his heart. “With my life.”


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dara meets Jamshid e-Pramukh.

“What would you like to eat tonight, little one?” Dara asked Jaleh, who was laying beside him on the carpet as they soared above rocky mountains, staring up at the stars. They’d been traveling for four days now. Had she not been with him, it would have taken him far quicker, but he had a little tourist in tow who insisted on stopping every time she saw something that caught her eye - be it a tiny village or a lone figure walking down a street. 

He felt a pang of sadness for her; she’d been orphaned when she was barely five years old, her parents having met raiders on their way back from a trip. Jaleh’s grandmother had cared for her, until she too had died - but not before she’d made arrangements for her to be cared for at the temple. Until she came of age, which is when she would have an empty home and some money to return to. As alone as Dara felt now, he could not imagine having to grow up like that.

“Faloodeh,” she answered Dara’s question almost immediately. He frowned down at her, having had this conversation with her multiple times now.

“You cannot have dessert for dinner. Priest Behrouz would smother me in my sleep if he ever found out.”

“You’re  _ worse _ than Priest Behrouz about these things, and it’s annoying,” she snapped at him. Dara felt himself smile, Jaleh reminding him so much of Tamima at that moment. Sometimes when his parents would leave him with Tamima while they went to palace feasts together, they’d provide him a list of instructions. Do not let her stay up late, feed her something proper, and no sugar unless it was a special occasion. He’d tried to obey his parents’ orders - he usually had no trouble bowing his head and doing what he was told. But when he’d told her the first time that she couldn’t have those saffron cakes she liked so much, Tamima had simply jumped on his back and pointed to the door.

“To the market, Daru!” Tamima was her big brother’s only weakness, and he’d only hesitated for a few seconds before he was carrying her out, rushing sneakily to the shop where he’d purchase those cakes for her. He’d carry her back the same, and she never told. Not once. It had always been their little secret.

“I will conjure faloodeh for you, but you also have to eat some of what I eat with me. Deal?” He asked her, still smiling at the memory. When she nodded, he closed his eyes and called on his magic, concentrating on the image and taste of what he wanted to conjure. When he opened his eyes, a silver platter sat in front of him with a cup of faloodeh and a plate of saffron cakes.

“ _ Two _ desserts?” Jaleh asked, wide-eyed as she reached out an arm and plucked a cake and popped it into her mouth. 

“Our secret,” Dara murmured, laying back down on the carpet and putting one of the cakes in his mouth. When he closed his eyes, his little sister’s face swam up in front of him. He could almost feel her twig arms holding his neck as she steered him through the streets of the Daeva quarter. Creator, he missed her  _ every _ day.

After they’d eaten, Dara put his hand under his jacket as he so often did, idly checking that the slave vessel and his letter were both still there. This time, he took the letter out, holding it up in front of him, the moonlight glimmering on the wax seal that was still attached to the paper.

“What is that?” Jaleh asked, licking her fingers. Dara waved a hand, and the platter disappeared.

“Something someone wrote me,” he replied.

“What does it say?”

“I do not know.” 

“You haven’t read it?” she asked, incredulously. Dara turned to face her. “Why not?”

“I do not know that either,” he answered softly. Truthfully, he could if he wanted to. He’d been practicing reading almost every day for the past year, and although writing still proved difficult in that his penmanship was almost illegible or how he’d constantly mix up the symbols, he was sure that if he wanted to, he could read Nahri’s letter. But every time he thought about it, his heart would start to race. Sometimes, he ached to know what she had to say, to hear her speak through the written words; at the same time, he was frightened she would say the things he feared she thought of him. That she could not forgive that he had brought such death and destruction down on her head, that she was glad he was gone, that he was a monster and she regretted ever loving him. That she hated him.

He shoved the letter back into his pocket. Not today.

*

They crossed into Zariaspa the next morning. Jaleh was snoring; not for the first time did Dara wonder how something so small could emit a noise that loud. He’d been near the grand wazir’s estate once before on Banu Manizheh’s orders, to see if he could recruit any daevas to their cause. He had not had much luck with the recruits, only returning with two soldiers, underfed and just needing something to believe in, but at least he knew the way to Jamshid’s premises now.

When he approached the estate, a white brick building framed by sprawling gardens, he descended to the ground. Gently, he nudged Jaleh awake. Squinting, she looked at the vast property in front of her, jaw hanging open. No, he supposed an orphan living in a rural temple would not have ever seen wealth like this. The carpet disappeared with a wave of his hand, and they approached the metal gates, flanked by two guards. Dara surveyed the building, the famed Afshin within him rearing his head. There were two guards here, and he could hear a few more inside the gates, and spotted three archers on the roof. The Baga Nahid was well guarded, at least. He approached the gate, its guards snapping to attention.

“May the fires burn brightly for you,” Dara greeted warmly. They returned the greeting, looking at him up and down. He had not brought many weapons— just his silver bow and his khanjar, both of which he now removed and handed to them without being asked. “My little friend and I are here to see Baga Jamshid. My name is Darayavahoush e-Afshin.” He brushed his hand against his mark. 

The guards gaped at him, and he couldn’t exactly blame them. One seemed to snap out of his daze and hurried over to Dara, patting him down for any weapons. When he felt what Dara knew was the slave bangle in his pocket, he removed it and stared at the emerald. When he realized what it was, he paled and handed it back without another word. He turned on his heels and walked through the gate with a curt, “Wait here.” And so Dara waited.

A few moments later, a wall of five men emerged from the gate, bows trained at Dara. He heard a sharp intake of breath from Jaleh, who grabbed his hand in fright. “It’s alright, little one,” he assured her softly. The wall of men parted, only to reveal Jamshid e-Pramukh. He did not look much older, his eyes amiable and soft as always, the lines of his face radiating a kindness that Dara had rarely seen on anyone else. He wore a dark jacket and fitted trousers, a Daeva cap placed on his curls. He looked at Dara, baffled and Dara — who was too well-trained, too well-conditioned even now — let go of Jaleh’s hand and knelt.

“Afshin, there is no need for that.” Jamshid said softly. When Dara looked up, he was looking at Jaleh. “And who is this?”

“Jaleh. I’m nobody,” she blurted out. 

“A tourist in your area,” Dara replied, taking her hand again. “I swear I do not mean you any harm, and I usually would have no trouble conversing with several arrows pointed at various parts of my body, but they are frightening my companion here.” Jamshid seemed to realize only then that a child was in the crossfire. Immediately, he gestured and his guards lowered their weapons. 

“Come,” he beckoned, and Dara and Jaleh followed him through the gates. Jamshid led them through the gardens and through a large ebony door, carvings of flames etched into the wood. Dara was surprised to see a child in the foyer, standing by the door. Jamshid touched the boy’s shoulder. “Go play with her, Ehsan” he said to him in Divasti, pointing at Jaleh, who promptly let go of Dara’s hand and followed the boy up the marble staircase.

“Who was that?” Dara asked as he was being led to a spacious, carpeted room.

“My son,” Jamshid replied simply, taking a seat. Dara startled, too taken aback to say anything for a moment, so he just took a seat instead.

“Who with?” He asked finally.

“Daevabad is full of orphans now,” he replied, a bitterness in his voice that made Dara flinch. “Many pure-blooded djinn who do not have children of their own took them in, including me.” He supposed he was responsible for a lot of, if not all, the children who were now orphaned in the city he had supposedly gone to save. Perhaps even this one, the child who Jamshid now called a son.

“Your estate is beautiful,” he said, swallowing the lump rising in his throat. He was not going to sit here, simmering in his self-hatred. 

“My father built everything from the ground up,” Jamshid said, reclining against his plush seat. “He was always running around picking out flowers for the flowerbeds and carpets from down south.” A wistfulness crossed his expression. “Where have you been all this time?”

Dara hesitated. He wasn’t sure how much Nahri had told her brother -  _ cousin _ , he corrected to himself - about where Dara had gone, and he did not want to make things difficult for her. “Around.” Jamshid raised an eyebrow. Sighing, he offered more. “I am currently living in a temple in Daevastana, going on hunts in between.”

“So where did you find Jaleh?”

“She lives there with several other orphaned children. Apparently, she has quite the spirit for adventure and travel; she would not stop pestering me on our way here, asking to stop to see human markets and speak with djinn--”

“Why are you here, Afshin?” Jamshid asked, not unkindly. Embarrassed, Dara sat up a little straighter. He knew he had begun to ramble, but sitting here in his presence, Dara could not seem to bring himself to say the things he wanted to say.

“To apologize,” Dara said, finally. “You do not have to accept it, but I feel it is important to give you one anyway.” Jamshid looked at him for a long moment, tracing circles on his leg. He looked so much like his mother then, his eyes squinted in thought, as if he was not quite sure what to make of the events unfolding before him. Then, he gave a slow nod. “I am so sorry for what happened that night on the boat. One reckless, stupid decision of mine took so much from you and the other Daevas in the city, and not a day goes by where I do not regret it.”

Dara paused, rubbing the palm of his hand, trying to remember what had happened that fateful day. Over the years, he’d thought of it often, but his memories would simply… fade out, as if there was a  _ hole _ there. He remembered stealing Nahri and Alizayd away into the night, and he remembered waking up to a bloody deck, Jamshid’s body riddled with arrows and the emir screaming at him in grief. Nothing in between.

“I do not remember it,” his voice was so low, he was almost whispering. “I do not remember shooting at you or Alizayd or anyone, for that matter. It is like the memories from my years as a slave; I remember the before and the after, and  _ nothing _ else. There is so little I know of my existence. I still do not know who freed me, or if I was ever free in the first place, and I cannot give you an explanation beyond that. Either way, it was my foolishness, my recklessness that brought us all together on that boat, and it should never have gone that far.”

After a long pause, Jamshid spoke. “I hated you for a long time for it,” he muttered, his eyes far away, as if he was reliving the pain of being shot so many times, the pain that had plagued him for years afterwards. “But sometimes my memories of the night surprised me, because seeing you like that, like you were  _ crazed… _ I couldn’t fit the Darayavahoush who lived under my roof to the Darayavahoush on the boat.”

“You and your father were exceptionally kind to me,” Dara said, meeting Jamshid’s gaze. “When I came to Daevabad, it never felt like a homecoming. It felt like I was a stranger, walking foreign streets, and the hospitality you gave helped me.” He remembered sitting at a dinner table with the Pramukhs, Jamshid and Kaveh asking him questions of his time, conversing easily amongst themselves. Even then, Dara had seen the closeness between father and son, the genuine love between them. He suddenly felt so sad for this small family that had been ripped apart.

“You were my hero, you know,” Jamshid said, offering Dara a smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “I grew up on stories about you. I wanted to  _ be _ like you.” Jamshid sounded like a boy now, like he’d been transported back to his days as a youth when he still believed in the heroes of legend.

“We have all admired people who did not deserve our admiration,” Dara smiled back. Jamshid seemed to hesitate, considering whether he wanted to say more.

“Everyone back home thinks of my father as a traitor now,” he sighed finally, his voice cracking at the words. “I’ve wanted to grieve for him, to talk about him, but I always feel as if I’m imposing on everyone else’s grief. What’s the life of one man when he helped bring the deaths of so many?”

“You are allowed to grieve your father, Jamshid. He loved you more than anything. I did not speak with him a lot, but I knew that much. It was clear as day.” Tears sprang into Jamshid’s eyes, and he looked at Dara almost pleadingly.

“I never knew my mother, but I knew him. There are so many things I wish I could tell him. Sometimes the desire to be able to speak with him for just a moment longer is so strong, I don’t know what to do with myself. There is so much he did not know about me, and so much I will never get to tell him.” The words poured out of Jamshid, words he had most likely kept inside for years.

Dara did not know if anything he could say or do would offer Jamshid the comfort he deserved. But, he decided to try anyway. “Kaveh knew about you and the emir.” Jamshid’s head snapped up, tears still rolling freely down his cheeks. “He told me he’d known for a very long time, and that all he cared about was your happiness. That he would have done anything to protect you from any hatefulness people threw at you for loving Muntadhir.”

The other man was looking at Dara now in shock. Then, he put his head in his hands. “Oh, Baba,” he whispered, and Dara felt like he was intruding upon something he was not meant to see. He looked away, giving Jamshid the time he needed to compose himself. 

“He died so awfully,” he finally blurted out. “I asked Muntadhir. He told me how he’d watched it happen.” Dara’s heart broke for Jamshid, who looked like a wounded animal. “It feels like I am being torn in two, Dara. How can I still love Baba when he helped orchestrate the massacre of Muntadhir’s people? How can I still love Muntadhir when he watched my father get ripped apart in the fucking street?”

“We do not choose who we love,” Dara answered softly. “War makes monsters of us all, and what’s done is done. But you should decide for yourself if you want to keep living in two separate pieces, or if you can find a way to bridge them both.” Silence fell again, broken a few minutes later by the sound of a child’s laugh carrying from upstairs. 

“I am glad I spoke with you today,” Jamshid said. He felt his heart give a lurch at that, for he had been wondering while he’d listened to the Baga Nahid cry whether coming here had been a mistake. 

“If I may ask,” Dara began haltingly, not sure if he had a right to know. “How is she?”

“She’s the toughest person I’ve ever met,” Jamshid smiled then, a true smile that lit up his face. “She’s grown into her role as a Nahid, and she seems very taken with bossing everyone around. She’s good at it too; she’s always running around pointing scalpels at people.” Dara let out a small laugh, pride flaring in his chest.

“I hope she is happy.”

Jamshid hesitated, perhaps considering how much to tell him. “She is and she isn’t. She’s happy with her work, with the people she surrounds herself with. She’s happy Daevabad is healing with her help, that her people -  _ both _ her people - are no longer suffering under a tyrant’s grip. But at the same time, it feels as if there is something missing.” He said nothing, but he could feel the weight of Jamshid’s gaze on him. “She misses you, you know.”

“I do not believe that,” he replied, instinctively.

“Oh, but she does,” Jamshid’s voice was firm. “She hasn’t quite admitted it to me yet, but I see it almost every day. An Agnivanshi named Qasim visited her once, speaking of you.” Dara’s heart began to race, remembering the good-natured djinn he’d started to consider a friend. “We found the vessel you left, and ever since, she alternates between the hospital and the library, working tirelessly to find a way to free them. All so that what you are doing won’t be for naught.” Jamshid paused, and then added with a teasing lilt to his voice, “And she keeps a dagger on her bedside that I think belongs to you.” Dara’s breath caught, the letter in his pocket suddenly very heavy against his chest.

“She deserves better than me.”

“I’ll agree with you there,” Jamshid grinned before getting to his feet. Dara also stood, thinking that it was time to go. “You should stay here for a couple of days,” Jamshid suddenly said however, startling Dara yet again. “The house is far too large for me and Ehsan alone, and I think he would like having someone his age around. And you can spar with me.” Dara blinked at him.

“Are you sure that’s wise?”

“Why wouldn’t it be? Much of my time back in Daevabad has been preoccupied with matters of government and the hospital. But I’m here now, and this place makes me want to  _ do something _ with my hands. My guards walk on eggshells around me so I can’t spar with them, so you’ll do. You are not allowed to go easy on me. That’s an order from your Baga Nahid.”

“Alright. Watch your back then, Pramukh. I’ve learned a few things.” He clapped Jamshid on the back, and the almost-shy look Jamshid gave him now reminded Dara so much of the quiet young man he’d first met in Daevabad, the one who had stopped an ex-slave from being harassed, approaching Nahri and him kindly and asking him if they were okay.

“Come. I will show you to your room,” Jamshid said, leading Dara upstairs and into a large room on the far end of an extravagantly decorated hallway. “You should get some rest, and I will show your little friend to her room as well.” At that, Jamshid turned away and Dara walked into his room. 

He clicked the door shut behind him before taking a seat on the bed. He was too aware now of the letter in his jacket pocket, his heart beating erratically in his chest. For the second time in the last day, Dara reached inside and held the envelope in his hands, playing with its flap and tracing the edges of its seal.  _ She misses you, you know _ .

Dara took out the pages tucked inside, unfolded them and began to read.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The letter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The letter is in fragments, and those fragments are not necessarily in order. I wanted to integrate it within the narrative and thought this was the best way to do it.

_ Dara, I hope you are well. I hope that more than anything. That you are healing, that you aren’t wandering the world like it is eternal punishment. You asked me to let you go, to let you earn a place in the garden with your family, and you deserve that. But the thought of you alone breaks my heart. I want for you to find something to hold onto, to make a millennia’s worth of memories with people you feel happy with. People who see you for who you are. _

Dara thrust his sparring sword forward, feigning right before switching to the left in the blink of an eye. Jamshid twisted away just in time, dodging the blade and cutting his own sword in a straight jab towards Dara: a good move, Dara noted, but not good enough. He stepped away from the thrust easily, hitting Jamshid’s hand with the hilt of his sword with enough force that it would have sent a less determined person’s weapon clattering to the floor. Jamshid, however, held on and Dara grunted in approval which resulted in a twinkle in the other man’s eyes, before he charged once again.

Jamshid was improving with alarming speed, his instincts already sharp, mind attuned to the Citadel’s harsh training, even if the military education they had given their daeva recruits was inferior to the education they gave djinn from the other tribes. Dara already knew that the daeva was a ferocious archer, remembering all too well the precision with which he had shot Dara through the wrist from the back of a rotting simurgh. But Jamshid had made it very clear that he’d had enough of arrows for a lifetime, so they’d opted for swords instead, sparring with each other every day for the last five days that Dara had been here.

“You’re going easy on me,” Jamshid grunted at Dara as their blades clanged together.

“Pramukh, I am an original daeva,” Dara replied, barely out of breath. He swung his sword free. “I could melt your sword with a snap of my fingers, putting an end to the show in two seconds flat. I  _ have _ to go easy on you.”

“Oh, now I see why she calls you arrogant,” Jamshid grinned, a gleam in his eyes. Dara was taken aback by the casual comment, losing a little of his focus, and Jamshid took the opportunity to parry Dara’s sword aside and hold the point of his own to his throat. Dara narrowed his eyes at the Nahid who was looking at him wickedly.

“That was not honorable,” he said with a smile. “I see your sister has taught you her tricks.” Jamshid simply shrugged.

“Being a straightlaced Nahid gets dull fast.” A shrill cry pierced the air and both men whirled around to look at where Jaleh and Ehsan usually played together in the garden. Dara swore under his breath, seeing Jamshid’s son sitting wide-eyed and mouth agape on a tree branch about fifteen feet from the ground. Jaleh was sprawled on the grass. The blade fell from his hands, and he broke into a run, speeding towards the girl.

He skidded to a halt beside her, dropping to his knees by her head. Her face was scrunched in pain and Dara’s stomach churned at the state of her arm, bent in a way that should not have been possible. “Oh, little one,” he said, touching her hair, even as he cursed himself for not paying attention.

Jamshid was beside them the next moment, appraising Jaleh with a practiced eye. “It’s just a broken arm, Dara,” he said assuring him. “Just hold her still.” Dara slipped an arm underneath her, lifting her to a seated position, holding her in place against him. The Baga Nahid placed both hands gingerly on Jaleh’s shoulder, closing his eyes and concentrating. The bones of her arm began to shift before Dara’s eyes, and feeling slightly sick, he averted his gaze. By the Creator, all the death and destruction he had seen - had caused - and now the sight of a broken arm was causing him to fret? But Jamshid was good at what he did, and Jaleh pushed away from Dara and was off in the next breath.

“You looked like a parent just then,” Jamshid said, seated on the ground, peering at Dara with a bewildered expression. 

“She reminds me of my little sister, and I took responsibility for her” he replied, breath hitching. He had not mentioned Tamima to anyone in a long time. “I have let down a lot of people I took responsibility for; it is something I have had enough of for a lifetime.”

“A broken arm. That’s all,” Jamshid assured him. There was a pause before he added, “There is something different about you from when I last saw you in Daevabad. You seem less,” he paused, perhaps thinking of the best word. “You seem less scattered.” 

Scattered. Is that what he’d been? After having just killed his Nahid, his own screams from his time spent as a slave still echoing in his ears, realizing that he had to cut himself loose from his home yet again to go on a seemingly impossible task, leaving behind everyone and everything he had ever loved… he supposed ‘scattered’ was as good a word as any.  _ And now? _ A voice whispered in his head. It sounded like Nahri.

Dara did not respond to Jamshid’s observation, who seemed to have realized that too. Slowly, he reached out and placed a hand on Dara’s shoulder. “You seem better. I am glad for you.”

_ I have to thank you for showing me that forest; it’s become a favorite spot of mine. I go there often when I have time for myself, taking along a bag of books and some snacks. Oh, but you should see Mishmish. He goes there to brood often. Did you know my shedu is a lot like you? He scowls a lot, and when he’s feeling haughty, he throws back his mane like he’s above us all. Speaking of which, Aqisa still calls you The One with the Hair. I quite like it. Speaking of people who speak of you, Razu talks of you often. So does Kartir, and your warriors - Irtemiz, particularly. _

They ate cream cheese and herb stuffed dumplings for dinner at the children’s request, before they retired to their bedchambers for the night. By the light of a flickering candle, Dara now sat hunched over a scroll, pen in hand, wondering how to begin. He had read and reread Nahri’s letter more times than he could count. He had been so frightened of what it would say but instead of sharp jabs that would have broken his heart, it was pages upon pages of minute details about her life, so vivid that he could close his eyes and picture them. She would oscillate between large matters like rebuilding the city, working at the hospital, how she  _ felt _ about it all and ordinary, simple things like her favorite places to visit in Daevabad, her conversations with her friends and learning to cook. It was all important to him, but it was the intimate details of her life that made his heart race for he could almost see her before him, gliding through her house trying to replicate an Egyptian dish she used to love, humming while she did so. It made him ache with a longing he had not thought was still in him.

What could he say to her in return? Perhaps he could tell her how he had found the two vessels he had, or how utterly  _ free _ he felt when he was the wind. He could tell her about the temple and its many children who treated him like an older brother, how they exasperated him and how much he loved them. About the friend he had made on the road, and another friend he had made in a Cairene apothecary, and the nights spent sprawled underneath the stars with a drink in his hands. How he felt invigorated by a purpose, a purpose that did not tie him to anyone but himself, how he could shed his title of Afshin and be Darayavahoush for once. He could tell her that he’d listened to what she’d asked of him without even meaning to; in these past few years, Dara had made more happy memories with people than he had in his entire fourteen centuries of existence. 

He could tell her that if he was not  _ happy _ just yet, he suspected he would get there.  _ As close as he could without her by his side, at least _ . That last thought came to him unbidden, and he let out a shuddering breath. No, he would not say that.

He got to work then, painstakingly forming the words in his childlike scrawl. He grimaced when they looked illegible even to him, inwardly apologizing to Nahri for having to read the atrocity. When he stumbled on a word, he pushed back his chair and made his way silently to Jaleh’s room, hoping she was still awake. He knocked softly. “Jaleh, are you asleep?” He said against the door.

“No,” came her response. Relieved, he pushed open the door. With a flick of his hand, fire sprang up in all the candles present in the room. Jaleh was lying in her bed, cradling her arm.

“Does it hurt?” Dara asked, taking a seat beside her. She shook her head.

“No, it’s just weird how quickly it healed. I broke one of my fingers when I was a child,” she said and Dara almost laughed at the child in front of him, reminiscing about being a child. “It took so long for it to heal, and Jamshid made the pain go away so quickly.”

“It is what the Nahids do,” he said to her, remembering all the times he had been healed by one himself, from minor scrapes on his legs to snapped bones to the iron running through his veins. Suleiman’s eye, he’d been brought back to life three times now by them but he thought that was too morbid a thing to tell her. “Would you help me with this?” He asked, holding up his parchment. When she reached for it, he held it firm, not sure he wanted her to read his words. “Is it alright if you just helped me with certain things?”

“Are you writing back to the person who wrote you that letter?” she asked, sitting up. Dara nodded, then asked her to help him with a few words he had been having trouble with. She peered at his crude writing, took the pen from his hands and fixed his mistakes deftly. “Who is it?” she asked, curiosity dripping from her voice.

“Her name is Nahri,” he said softly, taking the letter back from her. “Would you mind if I sat here and wrote for a while? I may need your help again.” She nodded and Dara took a seat at the table. It sat by a window overlooking the garden, the moonlight reflecting off the white walls of the Pramukh estate.

“Who is Nahri?” Jaleh asked after a long pause.

“She is Baga Jamshid’s sister. She is a friend, and I have not seen her in a while,” he replied.

“I hope you get to see her again soon,” she said, a yawn in her voice. His heart sank; that was not likely. Dara continued to work away at his letter, periodically asking for Jaleh’s help. He sat there for a long time talking to Nahri, telling her all that he had been up to, assuring her that he was alright. Her sun-drenched face came to him now, tears rolling freely down her cheeks, fingers tangled in his hair as she grieved over him being alone. Dara knew, without a doubt, that if she had asked him to stay, he would have done it. But she’d let him go, his Banu Nahida doing for him what he had needed her to… but the thought of never seeing her again. Creator, that had almost  _ broken _ him. It seemed to break him every day.

“I think I’m done,” he said aloud. When he looked back, Jaleh was snoring softly under the sheets. He waved his hand, extinguishing the flames he had conjured and walked back to his room, letter clutched tightly in his hands. They would begin their return journey to their rural temple in the morning, and Dara would leave Jaleh there before traveling west. He had somewhere to go.

_ My mother and father named me Golbahar. It feels strange knowing I have a whole other name, one I have never been called by, but I hold it close because it’s one of the only things I have of them. God, Dara, I miss them so much and it almost makes me feel silly for missing two people I barely knew, but that doesn’t change anything. I have flashes of my mother’s memory; I knew who she was, what she did and how her life began and ended, but there is so much else I don’t know. I promised you I would steal my happiness and never let it go, and I am  _ trying _ my hardest but pieces of myself are missing. Pieces that it seems I will never recover.  _

The next morning, Dara and Jaleh said their goodbyes to Jamshid and Ehsan. Dara had given his Baga Nahid the slave cuff along with the letter he’d written to Nahri, embarrassed at the obvious glint of amusement in Jamshid’s eyes. “Don’t read it, Pramukh.” He said, shaking his hand as Jaleh and Ehsan said their goodbyes beside them.

“How will you possibly know even if I do read it?” 

“Perhaps I cursed it. Who knows the powers original daevas have?” Jamshid laughed at that.

“Creator help me, it was good to see you again, Dara,” he said kindly and not for the first time did Dara wonder how different Manizheh and Kaveh’s son was to either of them. “Nahri will be pleased to hear of you, and I hope our paths cross again.” Dara bowed his head respectfully, bringing his hands together.

“May the fires burn brightly for you, Baga Nahid.” 

He gathered his weapons at the gate and conjured a carpet. With another wave towards Jamshid and his son, they set off west. Four days later as they approached their destination, he told Jaleh that he would be leaving again after seeing her safely to the temple. She scowled at him. “Take me with you.”

“I cannot,” he smiled, ruffling the top of her hair. “You have already missed two weeks of school, and Priest Behrouz will kick me out of the temple if you’re gone for much longer.” She descended into gloom for the rest of their journey. When they reached, he dropped the carpet to the ground and Jaleh began to stalk off in grumpy silence before he called out to her with a tease in his voice. “Don’t be a brat, Jaleh.”

“I am  _ not _ a brat,” she turned to him, furious. “If you don’t want to travel with me anymore, that’s fine.” Creator, is that what she thought it was? He made his way towards her and bent down to her level.

“I would travel with you everywhere if I could, but you have your own responsibilities here. You cannot shirk them, and it would not sit right with me if I let you. I will come back. I always do, don’t I?” Jaleh nodded at his promise, then threw her skinny arms around his neck and gave him a hug. “I will miss you, little one. Don’t bother the priests too much.” He smiled and turned away. While she still looked, he shifted into the wind and was gone.

_ There was a village near Cairo, a small town that nobody visits anymore by the Nile. My mother and I lived in a small house there with a single room, and she worked as a midwife during the day. I know nothing of my time there beyond the flashes of memories I could gather, and I wish I knew more. I wish I could hold onto something beyond what Manizheh did to my mother when she finally caught up with her, how she razed my village to the ground. I saw it too before I ever knew what it was. Dara, it was utter devastation. Utter- _

-ruin. Dara touched down to the ground, looking upon complete desolation. Manizheh had done this. She had taken so much from so many before he had ever even met her. And he had helped her take even more, so utterly deluded by the idea of goodness within her. Creator, forgive him. With his heart in his throat and wetness brimming in his eyes, Dara took a step into the place where the woman he loved had lost everything.


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dara meets an old enemy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You could listen to [this](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=OHB0g3u7M3M) if you want, it's what I listened to on repeat while writing it.

It was utterly silent, utterly still, the moon the only source of light. Dara whispered a prayer in Divasti for all the lives that had been taken here, all the futures stolen and dreams left shattered. With a snap of his fingers, he conjured an orb of firelight and with it as his only companion, he began to walk. The streets were littered with rubble since most of the buildings closest to the river had been obliterated, but some still stood in the distance, their roofs caved in, windows broken and doors lying flat in the entrances. As he walked, puffs of dust and ash rose under his feet, making him cough. The sound echoed off the crumbling bricks, a chill jolting through his spine.

Dara was not a man easily frightened. Even as a child, he used to spend hours in the woods framing the Daeva quarters in Daevabad, woods long considered to be haunted with restless spirits who had taken their own lives instead of handing themselves over to Zaydi al Qahtani’s forces. But walking through these foreign streets, seeing the scorch marks and long-dried blood spatters on the walls was almost enough to scare him. There was the smell of smoke and rot in the air, which shouldn’t have been possible if the catastrophe that had taken place here had happened almost thirty years ago. Something felt  _ wrong _ . It felt as if he shouldn’t have come here. Every sense on high alert, Dara retrieved his bow, notching an arrow and holding it ready, even as he continued to walk.

A flash of lightning in the cloudless sky illuminated the ruin, and Dara stopped in his tracks, his heart thudding unevenly in his chest. Every instinct in him was telling him to leave, to turn into the wind and get out of here before something horrible caught up to him. But Darayavahoush e-Afshin had fourteen centuries of looking danger in the eye, so he simply straightened his back, held his bow higher and glided silently on.

The sound was faint; had he not been on high alert and had his senses as an original daeva not been especially sensitive, he would not have heard it... but it was there. Footsteps padding through the sand to his right. Quick as lightning himself, he whirled and before he could even register who he was looking at, he had an arrow pointed to their throat.

“Oh, isn’t this a surprise,” she said, baring her black teeth in a wild smile dripping with malice. Her tendrils of hair blew around her as she approached, not seeming to care in the slightest that he had an arrow pointed to her throat. Had it been anyone else, he would have released a dozen by now, but Dara was frozen. With hate and with fury. And a faint screaming that sounded like him was ringing in his head. 

“Qandisha.” She threw back her head and laughed, clapping her coal black hands together, a gleam in her golden eyes. That seemed to snap him out of his daze. Qandisha was the most powerful of Aeshma’s band of ifrit, and he needed to switch to his true form so he could put an end to her once and for all. But he also knew she was  _ fast _ , faster than anyone had any right being, and if he were to switch forms here, she would slit his throat before he was done.

“When I set the curse around this wonderfully dismal place all those years ago after I found out the Nahid girl used to live here, the only daeva I expected to cross the line of magic was her. Or an insignificant djinn ally of hers,” she shrugged. “I never thought  _ you _ would come here.”

Mind whirring, Dara began to connect the pieces of what she was saying. “You cursed this place so you would know whenever a daeva stepped foot here,” he said. It wasn’t a question. “Were it someone unsuspecting, you would have taken them as a slave, and if it were a Nahid, you would have killed one of the only threats remaining to you. Is that it?”

“Clever man,” she grinned, stepping towards him. “If I were to kill you, do you think your little Nahid would care? Would she also weep your name like you did, or would she be glad that you - the specter of death and destruction over her life - is gone once and for all?” His hand trembled on his weapon.  _ Shoot _ , a voice within him urged. “She has not even seen the worst of you yet. Oh, the devastation you brought on countless human cities. A twist of your fist, a snap of your fingers and thousands would die. You were magnificent. Like a wrathful god come to  _ break _ the world. It’s a shame you don’t have your memories, but no matter. Vizaresh told me what happened, and I’m sure that now you can put together the pieces of your history.”

Dara snarled, a visceral sound from the back of his throat. She was goading him, this monster who had thrown him down a well, watched him drown, and then sold his soul. “Shut your fucking mouth,” he hissed, his voice deathly low.

“But you have always been cleverer than people give you credit for.” Cruelty dripped from her every word, stoking the fires of Dara’s fury. “Every time, you outsmarted your slavers. Every time, you would take their lives, scratching a record of the tally in your skin before dissolving into a slumber.” She appraised his body with a cocked eyebrow, then licked her lips - slowly, purposefully. “Did you know that whenever you were awakened by yet another slaver who wanted to use your… talents - violent or otherwise - you would beg them to let you go, fall to your knees, and simply weep?”

He let his arrow fly, shooting three more in rapid succession. They would all have landed, but the ifrit threw out her hands, a wave of fire bursting from her palms, fire so hot that the metal arrows melted mid-air. He drew the khanjar at his waist, conjuring a sword in his other hand before charging her, form be damned. Her scythe was in her hand the next moment, and she met Dara’s blow, their weapons emitting a deafening clang. He hooked his khanjar in the curve of her scythe, thrusting his sword up towards her lungs. She twisted out of its path, swinging her scythe free and bringing it towards his neck with a speed and force that would have taken it clean off his shoulders had he not ducked in time. 

“I would love to take you again, and how fortunate there’s a river nearby” she said between blows, barely breathless while Dara strained under her strength. “To kill the legendary Darayavahoush e-Afshin once was a badge I wore with honor, but to do it twice? Wouldn’t that be glorious.” She charged him. He jumped back, but the ifrit was absurdly fast and had managed to nick him on his side. A gash showed through his torn shirt, golden blood dripping onto the sand.

_ I need to shift _ , he thought again desperately. He couldn’t use his magic properly in this form. He was not as fast, not as strong, but he was also too close to her to switch forms. He needed to put some distance between them, just enough to shift so he could stand a chance. He fell back and the wicked glint of triumph in Qandisha’s eyes was almost enough to make him want to run at her again, but he held himself steady. He took another step back, then another. She cocked her head and watched.

Then, he turned and ran. Her cruel laugh echoed off the walls, a surge of hatred rushing through his body at the familiar sound. A hand pressed to the wound in his side, Dara made his way to the river, ash beading on his brow. “Where are you running off to, Afshin,” came Qandisha’s sing-songy voice behind him. He knew she was following; he had counted on it, but she was proud and so her pursuit of him was leisurely instead of urgent. The waters of the Nile came into view, the moonlight reflecting off their restless surface. With as much energy as he could muster, he raced towards the banks, skidding to a stop just at the edge of the water.

He turned and watched the ifrit approach, looking like a demon gliding through ruin, her hair whipping around her shoulders, scythe clasped in a claw-tipped hand. He should switch and fight her, but a mad idea was taking root in his head, and he wanted to see her shock, to smell her fear when she realized he could do something she could not. So he let her approach, the sound of water rushing through his ears.  _ You are mad _ , a past version of himself whispered in his ear.  _ You were a daeva who was drowned; this is mad _ .

Dara looked the ifrit in the eye, smiled, and stepped back into the water. 

Qandisha’s eyes widened; the Nile was a marid-infested river after all, but Dara was no ordinary daeva. The water lapped around his ankles, tendrils crawling up his legs making his skin sizzle. A wave rose behind him, angry and roaring as if to swallow him into the water’s depths… but he could not be touched. Not by the marids. And he saw himself then as Qandisha must have, standing amidst waves taller than him, water bubbling at his feet.

“The water is not quite as frightening to me as it once was,” he said, his voice soft, fire crackling down his arms. She charged towards him, hands held out by her sides, and he suspected she would do what the ifrit did best: raise the dead so those lost souls could fight their battles for them. But Qandisha could not follow him into the water, which gave him just enough time to gather his magic, feeling it coarse through his veins in sharp bursts. Then, he shifted - but not into the form that would make him look like her. One moment Dara was in the water. In the next, he was the wind.

And he was coming for her.

His khanjar was clasped in his hand as he soared above the ifrit now standing a mere two feet away from the water. Her eyes were wide with shock, and she snapped her head this way and that, looking for him. Silently, he rode the air and switched forms before hitting the ground, landing lightly directly behind her. Qandisha would look upon his face as the life drained from her body, and he would watch. She whirled, and Dara greeted her by thrusting his khanjar into her side. Even as he felt a sharp pain in his stomach, Dara brought his arm up and swiftly slit her throat. He watched the golden blood drip from between the black fingers she now held clasped around her neck, the light steadily leaving her eyes. He had ended another just like this, he thought to himself.

Grabbing her arm, he dragged her towards the river. With the little energy she had in her, she kicked feebly against the sand. Perhaps this was cruel. Perhaps not even an ifrit deserved to die like this, but Dara had no mercy left in him for this one. Her cruel laugh on the wind, his panicked screams when he realized he could not breathe, the water rushing past his lips as he drowned. Fourteen centuries of enslavement, a millennia and a half of doing the cruel biddings of masters, the blood of countless still dripping from his hands even if he did not remember how each stain got there. He looked her in her rapidly dimming eyes, relishing the terror he saw there. Then, he threw her into the Nile. The water wrapped itself around her and pulled her into its depths with a satisfied splash.

And then he felt it - the pain ripping through his abdomen, the pain that brought him crashing to his knees before he had even realized what it was. Oh, but she  _ was _ fast. Even in her surprise, Qandisha had managed to slice a deep gash into his stomach with her iron scythe. Panicked, Dara called on his magic... but it would not come. Embers fell from his lips as he bent over in pain, dark spots floating in front of his eyes before he doubled over, holding himself up weakly on his hands. 

Is this how he died? Alone and bleeding out on the banks of an Egyptian river? Attempting to shift again and failing, Dara closed his eyes, tears dripping down his cheeks. He fell on his back to the ground, fixing his gaze on the star-dappled sky above him, a prayer for himself on his lips. Creator, he had so much left to do.

He drifted, the sound of water in his ears, the wind on his face. One of his cousins was running to him, all gangly limbs and youthful innocence, talking about the day’s training and the Nahid council. His sister’s gap-toothed smile, his mother’s cooking, his father kneeling beside him, an empty desperation in his face Dara was too late to comprehend. The gate of Qui-zi clanging shut behind him, the gate of his home closing behind him next. Dragged through a battlefield and thrown down a well. Screaming. Drowning. Warm tears flowed past his eyes, his lashes wet, his lids so heavy they kept fluttering shut. Black eyes meeting his across a room before he was buried in rubble. Black eyes looking into his as he screamed inside his head. His own voice, making a promise to a sharp child with warm eyes, a promise he was about to break. _ I will come back, I always do _ . A kind peri with a soft voice asking him about his happiness and his life and his dreams. Happiness? Dreams?

“Nahri,” he whispered, before darkness engulfed him.


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dara wakes in the presence of two women.

Voices, unfamiliar and muddled. He was lying on something soft, a dull pain in his head and a sharper one in his abdomen. Dara cracked open an eyelid, met with a dim room with what looked like firelight glowing in the corner. He was not alone. He attempted to sit up, clenching his teeth against the pain before he was swarmed by whoever was in the room with him. A gentle hand belonging to a young woman pushed him back on the bed. “I have to leave,” he whispered in Divasti.

“Oh,” the woman replied, looking worriedly at her companion - another young woman stoking the fire. With her hand still holding Dara in place, she added in Arabic, “Nour, he doesn’t seem to speak our tongue.”

“I do,” he responded in her language, his words heavily accented. With the sting of pain still jolting through his body, he touched his stomach. Bandaged. “You can see me,” he muttered without thinking. The two women exchanged wary looks between themselves, and they came into sharper focus as Dara’s vision adjusted to the darkness. The woman sitting beside him wore her dark brown hair in a braid while the other’s - Nour’s - was covered with a loose headscarf. Both had brown eyes, matte brown skin, and while the backs of Nour’s ears were perfectly round, the other woman’s had a slight point to them.  _ Shafit _ , Dara thought.

“You are one of them,” the braided woman whispered, as if she were talking of secrets best kept hidden. “ _ The djinn _ .” He did not bother to correct her terminology, instead meeting her wide eyes with his, trying to read why her voice was blanketed with fear. 

“I will not hurt you,” he said, making a weak attempt to assuage their fright. The braided woman wore hers openly, but Nour simply frowned, trying to mask her fear - fear that was writ in the clenching of her fists, and the furrow in her brow.

“You’re not a bounty hunter?” she asked him bluntly.

“I- what? No,” he replied, the reason for their wariness now hitting him.

“We know the laws of your world,” Nour said, coming to stand beside the two of them. “We know that people like us are taken from their homes to some city no one ever returns from.” Dara closed his eyes. Once, perhaps he would have done exactly what the women were so afraid of: whisked them away to Daevabad without a care, for the laws of the world written by the people he worshipped commanded so.

“The laws of my world were built on lies,” he replied, a weariness in his voice. “I will not do what you fear, nor will I ever make your existence known to any of my fellow daevas. You have my word.” He touched his heart and inclined his head in respect. After a long silence, he spoke again. “How am I here?”

“We found you on our way home last night,” the woman beside him replied. “We both work in a small village an hour’s ride away from here, and we were returning during the night when we found you unconscious on the banks of the Nile.”

“You were bleeding  _ golden _ blood,” Nour said in a hushed voice. “We thought you were dead, but then your chest rose and fell ever so slightly, and we decided to try and help.”

“Why would you not leave me there?” He asked, perplexed. He tried to put himself in their shoes - two young women, barely in their mid-twenties if his estimate was correct - finding a half-dead man in the cover of night, bleeding golden blood on the banks of a river... most would have whispered a prayer and kept moving. 

“We considered,” Nour said simply. The other woman shot her a glare, and Nour rolled her eyes. “He seems like a reasonable man, Selma. Why lie?”

“It did not seem right,” Selma said to him. “What if we left you and nobody else came across you in time and that was the reason you died? I would not have been able to live with myself.” Her expression was so earnest, her voice so kind that Dara bowed his head respectfully again.

“I am in your debt.” His voice was hoarse and he ached to be closer to the fire. The flaming embers would revive him, help him gather enough of his energy to shift so he could heal. Then, he had to be on his way. He had promised a little girl that he would return, and he had let another little girl down far too often already by breaking that promise. He would not do the same to this one. 

“You aren’t,” Selma said, patting his hand gently.

“Oh, yes he is.” Nour interjected, but her voice was playful. “You’re very heavy, and it took several minutes to get you into our cart.” Dara smiled at that, her sharp tongue reminding him of another shafit girl he’d once known.

“I need to be closer to the fire,” Dara managed to say. “I thank you for tending to my wound, but fire will revive me quickly and then I will be on my way.” Selma and Nour both helped him up and he made his way slowly to the flames. Nour kicked over a cushion which Dara now collapsed on, the heat washing over his skin like a soothing balm.

He raised his tunic and unwound his bandages as the two women watched, just now noticing that his clothes were filthy with sand and mud. He suspected they’d dragged him by his feet through the sand, almost laughing at the visual. His eyes now fell on his wound, the gash stitched closed with an unpracticed hand. He could use the fire to regain his energy and relieve the pain, switch forms and heal but he would scar… and the scar would be ugly. Not that it mattered to him.

“I’m sorry,” Selma gestured sheepishly. “I’m not a professional but I have stitched wounds before, and I couldn’t take you to a human doctor so I thought it best I just try my hand, and-” Nour placed a hand gingerly on Selma’s shoulder, calming her.

“I would complain about some uneven stitching if you had not just saved my life,” Dara smiled at her, and she returned it gratefully. He sat there in the quiet for a long while, feeling the pain in his body recede. Absentmindedly, he called a flame to his palm and watched the fire in the hearth dance as he brought his hand closer to it. He heard a sharp intake of breath at the obvious display of magic.

“So it’s all true? That you’re made of fire and can do magic? That you live in trees and terrorize humans who sleep under them during the nighttime?” Selma asked.

“The first part, yes. Trees? No,” he replied, making the flames dance in his palm.

“Oh, you’re showing off now,” Nour scowled, making Dara laugh. “Could  _ we _ do that? I could do little things as a child, but not anymore,” she said, pointing between herself and Selma.

“Perhaps. Some of it depends on how much daeva blood you have in you, but most shafit are able to do some basic forms of magic. You need intent and patience, though if you would like to remain undetected in the human world, magic will not do you any favors.” Silence fell again, and Dara spotted Selma sitting on the bed, staring with immense concentration at the palm of her hand. 

“Who are you? How did you end up unconscious  _ there _ ?” At Dara’s frown, Nour continued. “Come on, everyone who lives around these parts knows that village is haunted. Or cursed, or something.”

“My name is Darayavahoush,” he began.

“Daraya-who?”

“Dara is fine,” he grunted. “I am not from this area. I was just passing through, and the village seemed… interesting,” he finished pathetically.

“Men!” Selma scoffed. “How could that crumbling pile of ruin seem interesting to you?”

“I recently discovered someone I know used to live there,” he said after a pause - what harm was there in telling the truth? “I wanted to see where she lived, but I was ambushed by an old enemy.” He could tell from the baffled looks on their faces that they wanted to ask him so many questions, but Selma asked the first.

“An enemy? They won’t come here, will they?” she asked, a note of panic in her voice. Dara shook his head.

“She won’t,” he assured them, a feeling of satisfaction running through him at the fact that Qandisha was no longer walking the face of the earth. She would no longer enslave another, no longer terrorize them with her mocking laugh and her hateful words.

“If you know someone who lived there, it must have been before either Selma or I were even born,” Nour said. “We grew up on stories of that village. There was a lively albeit small market, and there was a makeshift theater where children would go watch plays. It was bigger than our village here, so people would go there to purchase fruits and trinkets. That’s all gone now.  _ Everyone _ died… what does that?” Her voice had descended into a hush.

“It’s why people say those things about it,” Selma now added. “Because nobody knows what happened. There is no logical explanation to it, so people turn to superstition. Vengeful spirits or djinn,” she said, her eyes locking with Dara’s.

“It is not superstition if what they say is true,” he answered her wordless question quietly, staring into the flames. Both women let out a ragged breath. “It is not common anymore for daeva - or djinn, as you call them, but they are one and the same - to cause so much devastation on human cities. Not anymore, but wrath laced with desperation is a terrible thing.” When they did not enquire further, Dara looked up at them. “Are you two sisters?”

Pink tinged Selma’s cheeks and Nour shot her a quick glance. It was then that Dara noticed that the two women were sitting positioned towards each other, their fingers brushing against each other’s with a casual intimacy that stirred something in his heart. “My apologies. Wives?” Nour sputtered at his bluntness, and Dara’s brows furrowed. “I am not familiar with the human world; I apologize for having offended you.”

“We are not offended,” Selma said hastily. “People frown upon two women being together - or two men, for that matter. We’re not used to being so open about it.” She gave Dara a soft smile, and he felt a pang of sadness for these two kind women forced to love each other in secret. It was the same in his world - petty gossip and barbed glances following these couples around - and he did not know why he had assumed the humans would be different. Perhaps technological progress did not move hand-in-hand with mental progress after all.

“Do you eat?” Nour suddenly asked, getting to her feet.

“I do, but you- sit,” he commanded, waving vaguely in her direction. The pain had almost entirely receded, and he could feel energy humming through his veins. Picturing a hearty meal of flatbread, stuffed figs, rice and cooked vegetables, Dara let his magic wash over him. A meal was the least he could provide after all they had done for him. Even as he felt dizziness creep into his head, he heard the women let out sharp exhales and opened his eyes to see the food splayed out on the floor between them.

“Let’s keep him,” Nour said, clapping her hands together as Selma stuffed a fig in her mouth. They ate over snatches of conversation. The women spoke of their childhoods: how they’d known they were different when they could do things other children couldn’t. Neither had retained their magic as they’d grown older, perhaps because they’d tamped down on that ability in order to survive. How they’d been living in this two-roomed house for three years now, making long journeys to and from work everyday. How they owned very little but basic furnishings and a donkey cart now parked outside. He told them of Daevastana and the fabled daeva city they had been so frightened of, of zahhaks and shedus, of enchanted rugs and wicked curses. Some time during the evening, he had conjured them both cups of wine which they now sipped, Selma hiccuping happily while Nour leaned on her shoulder.

Later in the night after they had dozed off, Dara stood and stretched his limbs. Silently padding to the main door, he slipped outside and into a shadowy alcove by their small house. Calling on his magic, he shifted forms and felt his bones and sinews of muscle and veins crackle with magic. Any remnant of pain instantly deadened, and he watched the gash on his stomach close, leaving an angry scar in its wake. 

It was time to go.

Making his way back into the house, he placed a gentle hand on both women’s shoulders, jolting them awake. “I am leaving, but I wanted to thank you again and to say goodbye,” he said. Nour wiped the drool from her mouth and sat up, eyes bleary with drink and sleep. They followed him to the door, watching as he conjured a carpet. He would travel some ways on it before he switched forms again to cover the rest of his journey.

“If you ever come back, come see us, traveler,” Selma said. A rush of affection went through him at the sight of them standing in the doorway, arms around each other’s waists. He did not know if he would see them again, but Dara would not forget them. With a bow of his head and a wave of his hand, he was off, the wind rustling through his hair, the moon shining down on him. 

Soon, he was flying over the ruined village. He would come back again someday, to take a closer look without an ifrit interrupting him. To visit his new friends. The thought of  _ friends _ brought a small smile to his lips. Who would have thought?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this was genuinely supposed to be a different chapter but i got too attached to selma and nour and dara's friendship with them, so sike


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dara returns to the temple.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the first and last filler chapter in the fic, which is why it's short and doesn't necessarily expand the plot. But I wanted to write one happiness-filled chapter for him in his new home before I finally wind up the fic. If all goes to plan, there are only two more chapters left.

The temple came into view and Dara’s heart leapt at the sight of the nondescript building with its wooden fences and carved pillars, cattle grazing leisurely outside under the dawn sky. Once, the idea and feeling of home was reserved for Daevabad and Daevabad alone, but - and he realized this with a start - this place was starting to feel like a home in and of itself. His city he could never return to, but that didn’t mean he had to remain untethered for the rest of his life; he could build a home for himself, and he suspected that he had already begun. A home with people he loved and cared for— people who, miraculously, loved and cared for him in return. Sometimes, he would brood over the fact that one day those children he saw as his little siblings would grow up and learn the truth about him. Would they think him a monster then? A devil worth nothing but hatred? Perhaps this was also part of his punishment: making ties that were destined to be broken. But for now, Dara would cherish what he had.

He switched forms mid-air and touched onto the temple gardens, the early morning grass soft and wet underneath his boots. He swayed on his feet for a moment, exhaustion creeping into him. Groggily, he made his way across the gardens, into the temple and up to his room before he kicked off his boots and collapsed face-down on his bed. He was asleep before his head had even hit the pillow, legs still dangling off the edge of the bed, hair falling unruly onto his closed eyes.

When he awoke what felt like  _ days _ later to a bright room, he saw his shoes had been moved neatly to a corner, his window opened to let in the crisp winter air, a blanket draped over him so the sting of the cold on his skin wouldn’t wake him. Dara stretched his limbs and peeked outside. Snow was beginning to fall in soft puffs, the mountains of northern Daevastana in the distance capped with white. The laughter of children wafted through his open window, and smiling to himself, Dara got up to ready himself for the day. He could do with a bath and a shave.

His curls were damp when he made his way to the temple room where everyone usually gathered to eat their meals. He knocked softly on the door, hearing voices on the other side. He walked in, met immediately with a chorus of “Dara!” before he was assaulted by two children who had run to greet him. Affection rushed through him, and he dropped to his knees to say his hellos to Navid, who was now telling him of a fight he got in school and Pervaiz who wanted to know all of Dara’s stories. Another delayed shout of “Dala!” caused him to look down only to see the four year old Esfir, who promptly began climbing up his arm, settling comfortably on his shoulder, hugging his neck with chubby arms.  _ Home _ , Dara thought to himself as Esfir placed a kiss on his cheek.

“I see the Baga Nahid did not have you executed,” came Priest Behrouz’s voice, and Dara looked over to see the priest sipping his tea with a plate of fried eggs at his side. With Esfir still dangling from his arm, he bowed deeply and offered the Daeva greeting, which Behrouz returned with a kind smile. Navid and Pervaiz said something about the snow and dashed out of the room. 

“He was a very gracious host,” Dara answered, taking a seat at the table. The child that had attached herself to him now plopped herself on his leg and began to reach for the platter of yazdi cakes sitting in the center of the table. Dara handed one to her and she began to nibble happily on it. “I am glad I listened to you and went.”

“Ah, now you know to listen to wise old men,” Behrouz teased, a twinkle in his eye.

“I have a millennia on you. Perhaps you should be listening to me, old man.” 

“You can claim wisdom when you look the part, boy.” Dara laughed, conjuring a pot of oats and milk for himself with a wave of his hand. “You’ve proven quite troublesome. The children won’t stop complaining when you’re gone.  _ When will Dara come back? How much longer, Behrouz _ ? You’ve spoiled them; you do half their chores and feed them sweets behind my back, don’t think I haven’t noticed.” Dara blushed at the admonishment.

He held up Esfir like she was a melon. “Look at her, Behrouz. You can’t expect me to say no to her when her only crime is a sweet tooth.” Behrouz huffed in disapproval before he got up, his joints cracking at the movement.

“There are pilgrims coming from eastern Daevastana later in the afternoon. Take the children elsewhere and see they’re out of sight while the pilgrims are here; the snow will keep them busy.” Dara nodded his head, knowing that the order was for him as much as it was for the children. It would perhaps not fare well for the temple if it became well-known who they were sheltering within their walls. It would only take one hero with notions of justice and vengeance to bring their wrath down on the temple, and he could not risk anyone here. Nobody else would pay for his crimes- not ever again.

After finishing his breakfast, he picked Esfir up and placed her squarely on his shoulders, making his way outside. He saw all the children playing on the front lawn, laughing and throwing snowballs at each other with gloved hands. He’d never seen the snow as a child, but the thought of it had always excited him. Now, the snow reminded him of his time spent with Manizheh and his warriors, the thought of which always sent a wave of guilt crashing through him.

“Alright, let’s go join the rest of them, shall we?” He said to Esfir, who nodded enthusiastically. Conjuring a pair of thick gloves for both of them, he stepped onto the lawn. He took Esfir off his shoulders and asked her to hold out her hands. When she shook her head, he sighed. “Do you want to touch the snow?” He asked her, met with a cautious nod. With one of his hands, he picked up some snow which immediately dissolved into a cloud of steam. With his other hand, which he had placed one of his gloves on, he tried again - this time, it lasted long enough for him to shape it into a ball and toss it lightly at her face. She laughed, then held out her hands.

When they were both gloved, he let her run towards the children, her lopsided gait making him laugh. He shaped another ball of snow in his hands and scanned the crowd for someone in particular, spotting her braided head turned away from him. He threw the snowball at her head which struck her with a satisfying thump, white flakes now clinging to her hair. Jaleh turned in fury. “Hello,” Dara said cheerfully.

“Dara!” she ran to him, flinging her arms around his waist as he ruffled her hair. “You weren’t gone so long this time.”

“I knew you would scold me if I made you wait too long. You’re very frightening, little one,” he smiled, tugging her braid. Jaleh took his hand and pulled him towards the throng of giggling children, and he let himself be led. After greeting those he hadn’t yet had a chance to meet, he announced that they needed to leave the grounds for the afternoon. Calling three carpets, he divided the eight children and himself evenly, deciding Esfir and Tanvir, who was barely older than the girl, would journey with him while Jaleh and Navid were put in charge of their own carpets. 

“Do not let anyone fall off,” he commanded in a stern voice, but he decided he would keep the carpets flying low just in case. With a snap of his fingers, they zoomed off to a clearing tucked away near the mountains Dara was fond of visiting. It was difficult to get there on foot, the lands around it uninhabited for the most part, but there was plenty to explore. Rocky trails leading up the mountains, small coves at the base, a stream nearby, and there would be plenty of snow to play with. Jamshid’s words rang in his head as Dara planned their day, and he rubbed the back of his neck self-consciously. He was behaving like a parent too now.

When they got to the clearing, the children promptly resumed their play. Dara found a tree to sit underneath, the snow melting around him as he settled in on the ground. He leaned back, closed his eyes and let peace…  _ happiness… _ wash over him. He did not think he deserved it. Perhaps a better man would not have allowed himself this reprieve, this indulgence, instead choosing to remain fixed on his task. But Dara had been thinking far too much about Khayzur since Qandisha had almost killed him. Khayzur, the kind old peri who had taken him under his wing, gently coaxed him out of a deranged frenzy until he resembled a person again. He would tell Dara to forget his past, to forget the war and the bloodshed, and to simply  _ be _ .  _ Oh, old friend, how I wish I’d listened to you _ . But Dara couldn’t do that now; he couldn’t simply abandon his purpose, but sometimes he pictured his future stretched out before him like the yawning maw of a monster, and by the Creator, it scared him. All he wanted to do, for once, was pause. Take a breath.

He was hit once, twice, thrice with forceful snowballs, the fourth landing squarely in his face. They melted immediately, the cold liquid trickling into his hair. He opened his eyes to see four children staring at him with crossed arms. “Come play with us,” Navid called, another snowball held threateningly in his hand. Dara got slowly to his feet.

“You asked,” he said ominously before calling on his magic. He held his arms out at his sides; beside him, snow began to form itself into round clumps, lifting into the air until dozens upon dozens of snowballs were suspended in front of him.

“That’s not fair!” Jaleh shrieked, and the children began to run the other direction, their laughs carrying over the wind. Dara smiled at the sound. He took a breath and let the snow fly.


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dara finds something belonging to Nahri's mother.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a long boi, omg, and a lot happens. It's 5.3k words but after last chapter being filler and me wanting to finish the fic before school starts for me, I just decided to publish it as it is. I hope you enjoy. <3

The fourth time Dara went to Egypt was a little over a year later, the desire to see the village again pulling him west. And so on another biting winter night, he said his temporary farewells to his family at the temple, became the wind and was off. He’d been using his wind magic more often now, becoming more accustomed to it so it did not drain him as it once did. He could spend several hours in this form, having to stop to gather his strength and eat, but long distances were traveled more easily.

The past year had been the most uneventful year of Dara’s life, and also the happiest. He had spent quiet days at the temple, helping with its upkeep while helping care for the children as well. The children were steadily developing hobbies and interests with Dara more than happy to indulge them. Conjuring things for them was easy, and even as the priests tutted in disapproval, insisting that he was spoiling them, the children’s rooms were overrun with paint sets, makeshift swords, elaborate fabrics and sewing supplies, ingredients for cooking. Whatever the children wanted, they need only ask, and Dara would oblige.

Jaleh was shooting upwards with an alarming pace, her black eyes becoming sharper with each day. She’d developed a fondness for cooking that Dara suspected had a lot to do with his conjuring of the ancient dishes he missed from his own childhood, and she spent most of her time in the temple kitchens, experimenting with strange combinations of ingredients. Unfortunately, Dara was her taster. Sometimes her experiments proved successful and were legitimately delicious, but other times, he’d smile and hope it didn’t look like a grimace before using his magic to make the food disappear while her back was turned.

In fourteen centuries of existence, Darayavahoush e-Afshin had never been happier than he was teaching Navid how to ride, or helping Pervaiz with the correct way to grip a sword, or dipping his fingers in paint with Esfir and painting pictures of things they deemed worth painting. For Esfir, those were colorful flowers, the sun in the sky, the fires she saw burning in the altars around the temples. For Dara it was half-hearted attempts at capturing the beauty of Daevabad, mostly to humor Esfir than anything else - but the children would sit beside him and ask of the center of their world, and he would tell them his stories, stories they’d listen to with wide eyes and dreams of adventure. He’d tell stories of riding horses on the banks of the Gozan with his cousins, of visiting the human world as a child, of the tall peaks bordering Tukharistan and Agnivansha, and the shallow deserts he’d flown over with a companion at his side. He’d tell of the forest growing wild and untamed around the edges of the city. Of the palace with its shedu thrones, its walls that felt alive, of magnificently marbled floors and mosaic walls. Of a temple much like this one but larger, grander, with statues and carvings decorating every wall. Of the streets he grew up in as a child, bordered by merchant stalls, floating lanterns, yards of wool coats and silk veils and embroidered chadors. Once, telling these tales would have poked at the hollowness inside him, but those hollow parts of him seemed to be filling in, and so, the places and memories of his past no longer felt like a burden. They felt like just that: a past. A past that he cherished with a future to look forward to.

A few days after he’d left for Egypt, he touched down outside a small hut, outside which an ill-tempered donkey was tied to a post by a rickety cart. The call for evening prayer was blaring from a mosque, the muezzin’s intonation melodious and calming - even to him. Dara hesitated outside the door hearing voices on the other side. Now that he was here, he was unsure about this... but before he could change his mind and turn away, he knocked. The door opened almost immediately, hazelnut brown eyes widening at the sight of him.

“Peace be upon you, Selma,” Dara said solemnly. “I hope you do not mind me showing up unannounced like this, but I was in the are-” He was suddenly being hugged, and Dara almost staggered back with the force with which this small woman had thrown herself at him. Slightly embarrassed, he returned the hug, patting her awkwardly on her back.

“Ya, Selma, who is it?” came Nour’s voice from inside. Selma pulled away, a wide smile on her face before she pulled Dara into their hut, slamming the door shut behind them.

“We have a visitor,” she announced and Nour turned from the stove to look.

“Well look who it is,” she grinned, placing her wooden spoon on the pot before walking to him and giving him a one-armed embrace. “We didn’t think we’d see you again.”

Dara explained that he was just passing through, that he wanted to see them because he did not know when he would be back again. He had not planned on staying long, just to say a quick hello before leaving for the village, but the two insisted he stay for dinner: this time, they would cook, and he would sit down and eat whatever was served to him.

“Nothing would make me happier, but I must tell you that I do not eat meat.” The two women gasped in faux outrage, but Selma promptly opened a cupboard and retrieved a cup of rice before rushing to a basket of vegetables. 

He watched the two flit around their kitchen in perfect synchrony as they made conversation. The kitchen was a small setup in the corner of the room which also functioned as a bedroom and a dining area, the bed where they’d generously treated him settled in the opposite corner to the stove. Dara had always had a room to himself, preferring solitude after a long day; he could not imagine having to share such a small space constantly with another. Though perhaps that depended on who that other person was.

He ate a delicious helping of spiced rice mixed with lentils, a generous helping of roasted vegetables heaped onto his plate by a fussy Selma. He felt a pang of guilt, seeing how little these women had but how generous they were with it. Waving his hand under the table, he watched the basket of vegetables quietly refill itself, hoping the rice, herbs and spices he had seen them cook with had also done the same tucked away in shallow cupboards.

“I can’t believe you’re going back to the village when last time we found you half-dead on the banks of the river,” Nour said, her mouth stuffed with food. Dara shrugged.

“That was last time. This is this time.” She rolled her eyes in response.

“Maybe we should come along to save you should anything happen,” Selma raised an eyebrow, nudging his shoulder playfully. Dara laughed, almost tempted to her up on the offer. Perhaps it would be nice to have some company, but truthfully, he did not know himself why he wanted to go to that ruin so desperately. Perhaps it was just to see what it might have been like living there before Manizheh had destroyed it so spectacularly. He didn’t even know where to start.

“Could you tell me what you know of the village?” He asked, hoping against hope that he would hear something useful.

“Beyond what we told you last time? Not much,” Nour said and his heart sank. “A few years ago, an old pharmacist used to live here - a few houses down. She would talk of it often; apparently, because of her profession, she had contact with people from there. But her ramblings were superstitious nonsense,” she dismissed with a wave of her hand.

“You have a being of fire sitting at your table eating rice while you two are part-daevas yourself, and you want to dismiss something as superstition?” He cocked an eyebrow.

“Truly, it was nonsense,” Selma insisted. “Sometimes she would say the dead dug their way out of graves and ate everyone; other times it would be giant cats that eat the souls of men.” Dara sighed in exasperation. Nonsense, indeed.

“She would tell us other, mundane things with excruciating detail.” Nour added, her voice laced with both exasperation and affection. “The best fruits near the Nile were served by a woman named Hana whose store canopy was painted green, and the mosque’s dome was painted white with the carpets inside a vivid turquoise, and the residential streets were narrow but lined with grass belts and yellow flowers, and how the village healer and midwife and her daughter lived in a house with a red door near the market—”

Dara sat up, sending his fork clattering to the floor. Nour trailed off, seeing the expression on his face all while Dara’s heart ricocheted wildly in his chest. A healer and midwife and her daughter. He did not know much of Nahri’s past, but he knew what she had told him in her letter — and she had told him  _ that _ . That her mother had kept her head down, living a quiet life as a healer and midwife in the village before everything around her had turned to ash and dust.

“What’s wrong?” Selma asked, forehead creased with worry. Dara exhaled noisily before he bent to pick up his fork, placing it neatly beside his now-empty plate.

“It is nothing,” he assured them. “I think you just inadvertently gave me a place to start once I get there, and it took me by surprise, that’s all. I should leave now,” he said, getting to his feet. Selma and Nour followed him to the door, their little establishment now illuminated by moonlight. Dara inclined his head in farewell. “Thank you for the meal and for your hospitality,” he began formally.

Nour and Selma both stepped forward at once to kiss him on each cheek, Nour on the right, Selma on the left. Dara blushed.

“Perhaps one day you can conjure up one of those rugs you flew off on last time and show us around,” Selma smiled, patting him on his shoulder. 

“Which is our way of saying that you have to keep visiting us. Next time you can bring us gifts,” Nour teased, stepping back into their doorway.

Dara tried to think of a teasing remark, but seeing these two  _ shafit _ women looking at him with such open affection made every joke die on his lips, an old mantle of self-hatred settling over his shoulders. Swallowing the lump now rising in his throat, Dara brought his hands together and bowed deeply. “You have my word. About visiting. About the rug. The gifts. Everything,” he vowed solemnly. “May the fires burn brightly for you both.” Without waiting for a response, he shifted and was gone. 

The difference between the stretch of lively, well-kempt villages on the banks of the Nile and the ruin he now approached was so stark that it surprised him even after having prepared himself for it. He landed lightly on a street between two bare buildings, holding his breath to see if that feeling of wrongness and  _ rot _ he’d felt last time crept up on him again. He stood still for several moments, nothing but the sound of moving water and his heartbeat ringing in his ears, but he felt nothing. Straightening, Dara began to glide through the city.

There weren’t many signs that the village had once been inhabited, but every once in a while, he would spot imprints of past life. Rusted metal signs inscripted with Arabic among rubble. Abandoned rubber shoes and cloth dolls. He peeked into buildings to see broken shelves and broken glass, a small crumbling stage with tattered curtains in a square brick building where he assumed amateur plays were once held. He pictured children crowding around the stage, actors dressed up in inelaborate costumes, and in his mind’s eye, he saw a little girl with fathomless black eyes peering up at the show. Not for the first time, Dara whispered a prayer in Divasti for the souls of the departed, even as a surge of hatred went through him at this old terror Manizheh had inflicted.

As he kept walking, he noticed that he did not see bones. Perhaps people had gathered whatever bodies they’d found and dug them graves nearby, which seemed like a small mercy but a mercy nonetheless. A garden grew untamed to the west. And then Dara’s gaze fell on a narrow cobblestoned street framed by carts, some standing, but most lay smashed, their wood discolored and rotting. More signs littered the floor, and quick looks into the stores showed simple wares: a shop that once sold books, one with glass vials most of which lay shattered on the floor. It was hard to imagine that this place had once been full of life in this destruction so encompassing, so vicious. 

Dara kept walking until he found what he was looking for. A hut barely larger than Selma and Nour’s with a door lying flat outside as if it had been blown off its hinges. It was so full of dust, ash and rubble that he could not see the color. Bending, he swiped a hand over its surface, clearing the debris. Red. Truthfully, he could not know for certain if this was the house Nahri had once lived in, but an unbidden sheen of wetness began to cloud his eyes regardless. He blinked away his unshed tears and slowly, reverently, walked into the house.

It opened into a small room with two chairs and a table placed on the eastern wall, both of which were covered with a thick sheet of dust. The windows were shattered, the glass crunching beneath his boots as he turned and looked around. There wasn’t much in the space: moth-eaten cushions were tossed on the ground, a small bookshelf lay on its front in another corner. The walls were bare. On the northern wall was a doorway, partitioning the two rooms with a curtain. Dara made his way over, moving the curtain aside and walked into a bedroom. Glass from the broken windows littered the bed, which was unmade and dusty. This room, too, was bare, nothing in it apart from the bed, a nightstand and a blanket strewn on the floor. 

And then… something under the bed. He had it in his hands the next second, his breath leaving him entirely when he saw what it was: an amulet with a copper talisman, beaten and shaped into a rectangle. If he were to break it open, perhaps he would find a lock of hair lovingly blessed by two new parents. His hand closed into a fist, and his legs gave way.

Dara dropped onto the bed, placing his head in his hands.  _ Duriya _ . The name sprang to his mind as if someone had spoken it into his ear, and his tears finally spilled over. He sat there for a long time, crying for this shafit woman he had never known and another he loved, their lives upended in one horrific moment. How scared Nahri’s mother must have been, knowing that a devil was coming for them. How difficult it must have been to let her daughter go, giving her over to a god in the water. How scared Nahri must have been to have a mother, a home, and then nothing.  _ Was this what my home looked like after my city was sacked _ ? Dara choked back a sob then, digging the heels of his palms into his eyes, his tears coating the relic he held in his hand.  _ Was this the same price his people had paid for his crimes _ ?

He did not know how long he sat there amidst the dust and the dark, moonlight trickling in through the bare window. Wiping his eyes with the back of his hand, Dara’s gaze fell on the nightstand. It had drawers. He pocketed the relic, his next destination glaringly apparent to him even as his heart sank at the idea of going back to the city he was finally starting to turn his back on. Pulling open a drawer, Dara was met with a set of vials and a pungent smell. It was medicine, perhaps. He closed it and pulled open the second drawer… to see a book. It was leather bound, a cord wrapped around it holding it closed. He reached in and pulled it out, deftly unwrapping the cord to crack it open, its pages yellowed with age.

Pages upon pages upon pages of handwriting. It looked like Arabic, and he could not read it but he knew what it was even if he could not decipher the symbols. Each page began with what looked like a date at the top. Some entries were short - barely a few lines, while others went on for several pages. Resolve settled over him and Dara got to his feet, rewrapping the cord around the diary. Perhaps it was nothing more than accounts of human illnesses and afflictions. Perhaps it was something else. Whatever it was, it was not his to keep.

*

His landing on the banks of the Gozan was not a gentle one and he tumbled to the ground in an ungraceful heap, the breath knocked out of him. Dara had overexerted himself for the first time in a long time and he lay there face down in the sand for a while, exhausted. When he sat up, he checked his pockets to make sure the relic and the book were both still there, unable to wrap his mind around the fact that he was  _ here _ . On what seemed like a fool’s errand, no less. Because he had no way to get in.

Dara tried anyway, lurching to his feet and rushing towards the exact area he knew the veil began. Nothing happened, like he knew it would not. Growling in frustration, he paced back and forth, thinking. The only way he could get inside the city was if somehow, miraculously, the veil fell and he waltzed in… or if an especially generous marid gave him passage. Neither seemed likely, but Dara was nothing if not stupidly persistent and he had to try.

Spotting an ancient tree not far from where he knew the veil was, he cloaked himself in shadows and sat. Someone was bound to leave or enter the city soon… perhaps they could help him get a message to a certain someone Dara had hoped he would never see again. And so, he waited.

The first night passed without incident, the only movement around him the lapping water of the Gozan and the rustling of trees. The second day, he saw three people leave and he jumped to his feet, almost running over to them before he saw who they were: Tukharistani traders. He flinched, and sat back down. He dozed off the second night after battling to keep his eyes open, waking to raucous laughter several hours later on the third morning. It was a group of the city guard, six strong, comprised of Geziris and Ayaanle. Feeling his heart sink, Dara sat back and watched.  _ Fool _ , a voice whispered in his ear.  _ Did you truly believe someone would help you _ ?

Three more days passed like that with a narrow trickle of people going in and out of the city - people Dara could not and would not speak with. A few times he thought of leaving, but then a wild hope would spark in his chest. Perhaps one of the priests would show their faces, or one of his warriors. He was all too aware that his list was too short to pin his hopes on, but still he sat and waited. It was not until the seventh day that Dara’s breath caught in his throat and he jumped to his feet, almost sprinting to the person who had just emerged from within the veil. He skidded to a stop in front of the red-turbaned man whose steel-toned eyes widened at the sight of him.

“Subhan Allah! Darayavahoush, is that truly you?” He exclaimed in wonder and Dara, who had steadily been sensing his resolve crumble could not help himself, and he pulled Qasim into a tight embrace.

“I am so glad to see you,” Dara mumbled against the djinn’s shoulder, his voice cracking with disuse. 

“What in God’s name are you doing out here?” Qasim asked, pulling away and placing a gentle hand on Dara’s shoulder. Then, a look of alarm crossed his face. “You have to leave! If anybody sees you, they’ll slaughter you on the spot.”

“They can try,” Dara said in a low voice. He was touched that this djinn would show such concern over someone like him, however. “My friend, I would like to sit with you for hours and talk, but for now, I need you to do something for me.”

“Anything,” Qasim said, placing a hand over his heart with an earnestness that made Dara want to hug him again.

“Is Zayd-- is Alizayd al Qahtani in the city?” At Qasim’s confused nod, Dara continued. “Tell him there is someone on the other side of the veil here to see him. Do not tell him who, or he will emerge with a whole contingent of guards.” The djinn squinted at him.

“I am fond of you, Darayavahoush, but if you are planning to kill Alizayd, I cannot help you with that. You see, I am also fond of my head.”

“There is no  _ killing _ involved,” Dara insisted. “I swear it. He alone knows the way to help me enter the city, and I just want to speak with him. If he refuses - which he most likely will, I shall leave. Please,” he pleaded. “I swear to you, you can talk my ear off about fruit all you want after you do this for me.” Qasim laughed at that, and Dara smiled sheepishly back. His expression must have seemed sincere because Qasim nodded.

“Alright, but I will hold you to your promise, Afshin.” He turned and walked through the veil, vanishing before Dara’s eyes. Now, more waiting.

Once more, Dara cloaked himself in shadows, this time choosing to pace the length of the river. He had barely gotten any sleep since he had come here, dozing off for a few hours or so after multiple days of staying alert, but with excitement buzzing through his veins, he felt like a child on the eve of Navasatem. It was not until night had fallen and he stood under the cover of stars that the veil shimmered and a lone figure stepped in front of him.

Alizayd’s previously tin-colored eyes were now a frighteningly odd shade of yellow, unnatural and unsettling. They now widened with surprise, then narrowed with ill-concealed fury. Even so, the little prince was no longer the boy Dara had sparred with all those years ago - as evidenced by the maturer set of his features and the many scars marring his skin - and he schooled his features into a veneer of calm, even as his hand fell to the hilt of his sword. It was not a zulfiqar, Dara noted.

“Scourge,” Alizayd hissed.

“Sea monster,” Dara replied cheerfully. With a jerk of Alizayd’s head, a wave rose behind Dara, who turned to appraise it. “You are wasting your energy.  _ That _ cannot hurt me, but I suppose it is a good skill to show off.”

“Why are you  _ here _ ? Have you not done enough?” Alizayd snapped, the wave still floating over Dara’s head. He clenched his fists, fire crackling around his wrists, but he controlled himself. It would not do to antagonize his only means into the city.

“I need to see Nahri,” he finally responded. “Since she cannot cross the veil, I ask that you help me cross it in her stead.” The djinn prince scoffed, the wave collapsing back into the Gozan.

“If you think I will let you enter the city, you truly have lost your mind this time.” Dara bristled at the implication of his words, but he held his tongue. “She let you leave, and you need to stay gone.” 

“Perhaps you are right, for once. But I have something of hers,” Dara said, patting his inner jacket pocket. “She would want to see what it is.”

“So give it to me,” Alizayd held out a hand. Dara clenched his jaw; never had he wanted to punch someone so badly. But he took a deep breath and played a gamble, hoping it would land.

“I could,” he replied, offering the prince a nonchalant shrug. “But then you would have to tell her where you got it from and how you refused to let me enter, although that is what I asked of you. It is up to you.” Alizayd’s grip tightened on the pommel of his sword, and he glared at Dara with naked hatred. 

The two stood there for a long while, the prince considering what to do and Dara waiting with bated breath. He had come here to get Nahri’s possessions to her; did it truly matter if he gave them to her himself or not? But by the Creator, sitting by the veil for a week even as his hopes chipped away, it had awakened a wild desire in him. If he could see her once more, walk through Daevabad just  _ once _ more… He wanted it. He wanted it more than he would dare admit to himself.

“I will be in and out,” Dara said quietly, all bravado and jest leaving him in a puff of breath. “Truly, I would never have returned, and I do not plan on staying. Nobody need know I was here except for you and her. I will be a ghost through the streets, nothing more.” The prince appraised him with those unsettling eyes before, miraculously, he gave a curt nod.

“In and out,” he repeated Dara’s words in a low voice. “You need to step into the water.” 

Dara hesitated, but stepped back into the churning river. Alizayd finally removed his hand from his weapon and followed, gliding into the water with a grace he did not exhibit on land. Grabbing the back of Dara’s tunic, the Qahtani pulled him under the surface and not even Dara could hold back a yelp, the memory of being thrown down a well intruding into his thoughts. He began to pull away, but instead of feeling the water press oppressively onto him, Dara felt…  _ nothing _ . He opened his eyes to see what looked like waves over his head and all around him, flashing past at lightning speed, streaks of color - which he realized were schools of fish - weaving into the water. The prince was a presence beside him rather than flesh and blood, and he was hissing something in a language Dara could not comprehend. Voices rose all around him, tinged with anger and spite, but before Dara could make sense of any of it, he was thrown onto the grassy banks of a river, soaked to the bone. 

He heaved in deep breaths, grateful to be on land even as Alizayd looked down on him with pursed lips. Dara got to his feet and called on his fire magic, letting its warmth dry his clothes before he finally turned and looked around at where he was. To his back were the mountains of the city, mountains his Banu Nahida had moved between the lake and this newly formed river while she healed the city. And to his front was  _ Daevabad _ . 

The city was silhouetted against the inky sky, the domes of the Nahid palace rising in the distance, which told Dara he was closer to the Geziri quarters than the Daeva quarters. Flickering lantern light shone in the windows of homes, but the city was quiet and still which told Dara it was long past midnight. “I can go the rest of the way myself,” he said, turning to Alizayd, hoping the pounding in his chest wasn’t audible to the djinn. “I know how not to be seen.”

“I am not letting you out of my sight.” He set off then to the west towards the Geziri and shafit quarters. Perhaps he was being taken to be executed; he did not deny that he deserved it, but he would like to see Nahri once more before he lost his head, but he kept his silence as they walked through the grassy bank of the river. As they approached the shafit district, Dara cloaked himself in shadows, walking as close to the city walls and buildings as he could. At the gates of the shafit district stood a guard who greeted the prince with a boisterous “Peace be upon you.”

“And upon you peace,” Alizayd replied. While he spoke with the guard, Dara slipped into the district, memories of what had happened the last time he had stepped foot here hitting him with full force. Memories he revisited often in his nightmares. A revulsion rose within him, and he hated himself then for coming here, for daring to step foot in the streets he had bathed in blood whilst enslaved. For what did it matter that it had not been his will that did it, when  _ he _ was the one who had helped bring that woman into the city in the first place? Before he could bow his head to the urge to turn and flee, Alizayd approached.

“Come,” he said and Dara followed numbly. The Qahtani prince led him through the streets - streets that were being repaired even now, almost six years after he had been here last. He lowered his gaze, watching the shadows writhe around him as they walked in complete silence - silence broken only by the sound of crickets and the occasional voice carrying from within a home. He knew which building was approaching. He had memorized the path to Nahri’s hospital when he had broken in to save Irtemiz, the thought of his favorite warrior sparking a hope in his chest, which he immediately quelled. In and out. Nobody could know. 

The Qahtani stopped, and Dara glanced up to see Alizayd looking at a small house to his right. Dara stood aside as the djinn prince cautiously approached the door, raised a hand and knocked. It wasn’t long before he heard shuffling on the other side of the door. His heart in his throat, Dara pressed closer to the house’s outer wall, suddenly very unsure if he wanted to do this at all. The door clicked upon and a blissfully familiar voice that almost brought him to his knees snapped, “By the Creator, Ali, have you seen the time?”

“Forgive me, my friend. I, er- it’s probably best this happened under cover of night.” He could  _ sense _ her confusion even if he couldn’t see her face. Taking a shaky breath, Dara stepped in front of her, letting the shadows melt from his body.

Her eyes widened, her mouth falling open in a wordless ‘oh.’ He drank her in, locks of her black curls falling into her eyes from beneath a white chador, her features somehow both sharper and kinder since the last time he had seen her. She seemed to be doing the same to him, her gaze scanning his face, falling to his tattooed arms, then to his hand that no longer had the ring she was once so familiar with, before her black eyes met his again.

She reached out tentatively, slowly and placed a hand on his chest… as if to check that he was real. His traitorous heart picked up its pace even more at her touch, while his traitorous hand found a life of its own and reached up to touch her face, his thumb caressing her cheek.

“ _ Nahri _ ,” he whispered and the name burst from his lips like a prayer. 

She flung herself at him, his arms coming to lock around the small of her waist, and Dara’s world ceased to exist beyond her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One last chapter after this one...


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dara and Nahri get to talk.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The final chapter. This was hard to write for multiple reasons, and I truly hope that you enjoy it. Thank you for sticking with me all the way to the end! <3

It took everything Dara had within him to pull away from her, but it would not do for his Banu Nahida to lose everything she had built yet again because someone somehow stumbled upon her in the Scourge’s arms in the middle of the shafit district. She seemed to realize it as well at that very moment, and she stepped away from him back towards her door. Even under the cover of night, Dara did not miss her flushed skin, nor her wet eyes.

“It’s alright, Ali,” she said, turning towards the prince who was watching them both with a look of profound disapproval on his face. “You can leave. Thank you for doing this, truly, but I’ll be alright. I’ll come find you tomorrow.” Reaching out and taking Dara’s hands, she pulled him into her home and began to shut the door.

“Nahri, I don’t think that’s such a good idea,” Ali began, narrowing his eyes at Dara. 

“I’ll see you tomorrow,” Nahri said again through a crack in the door, before clicking it shut. Silence, and then the quiet sounds of footsteps walking away. Dara watched her keep her back to him, forehead placed against the door before she finally let out a noisy exhale. Something seemed to snap within her and she was off: flinging her chador away, shutting the curtains on her one window all the way closed, rushing over to lit candles and blowing them out one by one, until only the one beside him remained. Dara bent down and blew, watching the flame dissipate in a puff of smoke until they stood in complete darkness.

He stepped closer to her silhouette, even as his heart sank at how  _ difficult _ he made life for her even now. “Have I truly become so unbearably ugly that we must communicate in complete darkness?” A pause, and then she laughed - a sound so feeble and startled and sweet that he wanted to catch it and hide it away.

“I can’t believe you’re here,” she whispered, then muttered to herself, “One is okay.” With a snap of her fingers, the candle in the far corner of the room lit itself and he could see her again, albeit faintly. She looked at him for a long moment, her eyes still wet, then stepped forward and wrapped her arms around his waist. “I can’t believe you’re here,” she repeated, speaking the words into his chest.

They stood like that for minutes or hours, Dara had no way of knowing. He pressed his lips to her hair, breathing her in. When she pulled away, he reached out and tucked a lock of her hair behind her ear. For the second time that night, Nahri took Dara’s hand, this time leading him to a sofa. “Sit,” she commanded and he obeyed, watching as she plopped down onto the cushions.

“How are you here?” she finally began, turning towards him and pulling her legs up, placing her chin on her knees. Dara leaned forward, fiddling with his hands.

“I bullied a marid,” he smiled lopsidedly. As his eyes rapidly adjusted to the darkness, he saw her shoot him a glare that reminded him so much of their travels to Daevabad that it made his heart lurch. “That is a lie. I was nice to him this time, I swear it.” 

“You being nice is a disconcerting image,” Nahri snorted and Dara felt his smile widen. “You’re completely reckless, did you know that? Do you know how utterly  _ dangerous _ it is for you to be here?”

He turned to face her, biting the inside of his lip, all too aware of how the two of them were whispering to each other in the darkness to keep his presence here a secret. “Nahri, I am sorry. I know I should not have come here. I do not know what I was thinking to put you in such a situation where people will challenge your rule because of your association with me-”

“By the Creator, Dara, I’m not talking about it being dangerous for  _ me _ !” She squinted at him, worry etched over her features. “People still talk of hunting you down, of sending search parties to bring you back and execute you.” He flinched, but truly, he could hardly blame them. “If anyone finds out you’re here, the whole city will come for you.” Her voice cracked and suddenly, the shut curtains, the lowered voice and the single candle burning in a corner of the room all had a very different meaning.

“I would like to see them try to catch the wind.”

“I see that arrogance doesn’t go anywhere even with time,” she said to him, even as a smile played at her lips. 

“Who would I be without that arrogance you love to remind me of, Banu Nahida?” She reached out a hand and touched his cheek, his eyes fluttering closed of their own accord at the feel of her palm against his skin. He held it there, pressing his face to her hand while she scrutinized him.

“You don’t look any different than I remember,” Nahri whispered. “It’s as if you were plucked out of my memories and placed in front of me, as if no time has passed at all.”

“I suppose someone who lives for millennia ages even slower than other daeva.” He took the time to appraise her as well, noticing that the angles of her face were a little sharper, lines creasing her forehead - presumably from frowning too much. She was beautiful; his memory had not done her justice, somehow  _ more _ now with the shadows under her eyes and laugh lines around her mouth. He caught a silver hair or two hidden within her wild mane of curls, and with a start, he realized that she no longer looked like the girl he’d whisked away from a Cairene cemetery. She looked thirty - about the same age he had been when he’d drowned all those centuries ago, the same age he had looked ever since and would look for a long time. “You look my age,” he blurted out before he could stop himself.

“Are you telling me I look  _ fourteen hundred years _ old? Ya, Dara, governance hasn’t aged me  _ that _ much, has it?” He laughed and pressed a kiss to the inside of her palm before dropping both their hands to his lap and threading his fingers through hers.

“How are you, Nahri?” She gazed at him for a long while at the question as if she was trying to gather her thoughts. And then, she sighed and a torrential outpour of words tumbled from her lips.

“You know what you said? About how people will challenge my rule? People haven’t stopped challenging my rule since it began, and I suppose I can’t expect thousands upon thousands of years worth of history to be forgotten like that,” she snapped her fingers, “but by the Creator, it’s  _ hard _ . The first two years were okay with everyone so focused on rebuilding the city and mourning their dead that not much else mattered. But now the word is out that I am shafit, and you know better than most how deep those prejudices run, and I see hostile eyes  _ everywhere _ , Dara. I suspect the only thing that has not gotten me killed is the council I’ve set up with elected members from each tribe. That appeases a lot of people, I suppose, but I don’t know how many of those council members I trust either.” 

His heart pounded in his chest as he listened, an old instinct in him rearing his head. Darayavahoush, the Afshin, wanted to arm himself head-to-toe and stand by her side like a shield, like a challenge for anyone who would dare threaten her. The wiser part of him, belonging to the man who lived within him now, told him that would make matters worse, and so he simply squeezed her hands and prompted her to keep going.

She spoke of Jamshid and the priests at the Grand Temple, and their joint efforts to begin unraveling the prejudice against the shafit. Of how a lot of people in Daevabad packed up their meager belongings and left to relocate, some unable to live in a place so ripe with trauma, others unwilling perhaps to be ruled by her. It was like Dara could see the weight of it all on her shoulders, and the longer Nahri spoke, the more she began to hunch from it. 

“You are unhappy,” he said to her once she was finished, running the pad of his thumb over her knuckles.

“I don’t know what I am,” she confessed. “It’s difficult, and I don’t feel equipped. I still feel like an impostor who took a position that was never hers to begin with, but I can either sit here and feel sorry for myself, or I can hold my head up and do the best I can with the cards that were dealt me. I still don’t know where happiness factors into that.” She gave him a small smile that didn’t reach her eyes. It broke his heart. “Despite all that… I don’t know, perhaps it might factor in  _ somehow _ some day. The city, the people, the rule… even if it doesn’t ever fit completely, I hope it will be easier.” He knew that feeling too well, the one where perhaps the only thing that kept you moving was the hope that it would get better.

“Do you miss it?” He asked her quietly.

“Egypt? Every day,” she replied with a sigh. “I’ve grown to love Daevabad. I’ve put my own roots here with the hospital, with the friends I have and the family I’ve found. My father’s orange grove up at the palace, afternoons spent with my grandfather, flying over the city perched atop Mishmish, long conversations with people I love but…  _ Egypt _ . That thread keeps pulling at me and I don’t know how to snip it, Dara.” By the Creator, he had missed his name leaving her mouth. 

“I would tell you that leaving behind your home gets easier, but that would be a lie,” he gave her a sad smile. “Even when you find someplace else to call yours, even when it gets easier to breathe, that tether will always remain.” 

“How fitting that both of us long for a home it is impossible to return to.”

“And yet, here I am. Perhaps the door is not as closed as you think it to be.” When she cocked an eyebrow at him in question, he continued. “The Nahids in my time passed the seal between them. There are two of you in the city; perhaps you can find a way to do the same.” He saw a gleam spark in her eyes for a fraction of a second before it died.

“I can look into it, but so much of our history has just… vanished. I still haven’t figured out how to free the slaves. Some texts are downright unreadable, others are useless, and most seem to have been destroyed over the course of the many conflicts this city has seen.” He nodded, swallowing the lump in his throat. As soon as the suggestion had left his mouth, he had begun to picture it: Nahri handing the seal ring to Jamshid before taking Dara’s hand and stepping past the veil into adventures unknown.  _ Fool _ , he chided himself softly. When had the path to his wishes ever been so simple?

He straightened, remembering why he was here in the first place. Reaching a hand into his inner jacket pocket, he retrieved both the relic and the book while Nahri looked on with abject curiosity. “After I read your letters, I visited the village your mother lived in,” he said and heard her sharp intake of breath. “I came across your old house and found these. It’s why I am here.” 

Nahri took the book from him delicately, then the copper amulet which she turned in her hand, an expression so vulnerable on her face that it made him want to look away. Tears spilled from her eyes as she fumbled with the leather cord of the book, cracking the spine open to the first page. He did not know what she read there that made her close her eyes and choke out a sob before she began to flip through the pages. He sat in silence for several minutes while she looked, wiping her eyes every so often with the back of her hand. Finally, she sniffed and closed the diary, placing it gently on the table beside them.

“I don’t know how to thank you,” she said to him, prompting him to frown at her.

“Thank me? Whatever for?” 

“For this. This is  _ everything _ ,” More tears spilled down her face and Dara reached forward to wipe them away.

“You do not ever need to thank me for anything, little thief.” She broke then and placed her forehead to his chest, her body wracked with sobs. Dara placed a hand on the top of her head, stroking her hair as she cried, her tears soaking the front of his tunic.

“God forgive me, I have  _ missed _ you,” she said when she could, face still buried in the fabric of his jacket. “Every single time I thought it was getting easier, you would show up in a dream with your stupid eyes and your stupid smile and I’d be reminded of how much I missed you all over again.”

Dara was speechless for a moment, the sudden confession leaving him startled even as it resonated within him. It was how he had felt about her, but to think that she felt the same way? After all he had done? It did not make sense, and so he said, “Nahri, I- I am not worth wasting your thoughts on--”

She threw up her hands in frustration. “Will you  _ stop _ ?” She growled, getting to her feet and grabbing his arm. She pulled him up with her before leading him to a door on the northern wall of her room. “After everything we’ve been through, do you truly think you believing you’re not  _ worthy _ makes a damned difference? Do you believe telling me not to think of you will make me stop?” She flung open the door and he was led into her bedroom - a small space with curtained windows, a soft-looking bed overcome with pillows with nightstands framing either side and a Daevastani style rug decorating the floor. 

She pulled him to the right side of her bed and pointed, Dara’s gaze now falling on a sheet of paper placed on one of the pillows, almost falling apart with how many times it had been folded and unfolded. He picked it up, recognizing his illegible scrawl immediately - writing that had been made even more unreadable because the ink was blotted with drops of moisture. “And look here,” came her voice and he turned to see her picking up a jeweled knife from her nightstand - the hilt decorated with carnelians and lapis stones. “You can spew whatever nonsense you want about not being  _ worthy _ , but it doesn’t change anything.”

At a loss for words, Dara stared at the woman standing before him, the set of her features defiant, her eyes bright and a dagger held in one hand.

And then he kissed her. She froze for a fraction of a second, before she sighed against his mouth and wrapped both her arms around his neck. One of his hands tangled in her hair, his other arm lifting her easily off the ground, and Dara felt her wrap her legs around his waist. He fell back on her bed, hearing the knife that had once been his over a decade ago clatter to the ground. Her body sank into his, her teeth grazing against his lower lip, prompting a shiver from him that made them both shake… and then his hands on her back paused in their descent to her hips, and even as every inch of his body sang at her touch, Dara gently pulled away.

“Nahri,” he whispered against her skin and she pulled further back to look at him, her already impossibly black eyes somehow even darker. At the expression on his face, she rolled her eyes and fell onto the bed beside him.

“What is it now, you infuriating man?” she asked him, the exasperation so evident in her voice that Dara had to bite back a smile. 

“It is selfish,” he said to her, turning to face her and propping his head up on an elbow. “But if we do this and I have to leave again after yet another tragic farewell,” Dara paused, the next words leaving him in a quiet hush, “I do not think I would be able to take it. Not this time.”

Nahri touched a hand to his cheek, pushing back a lock of his hair. “So stay. Don’t leave.”

“Were it that easy, my love,” he whispered, his lips pulling up at one corner in a sad smile, and Nahri closed her eyes at his words, both of them transported back to a burning palace. “I cannot stay here. The city will never heal with me walking its streets like the demon from everyone’s worst memories. And you will never be able to rule with me by your side.”

“I’m beginning to think we’re cursed, Dara,” she said, opening her eyes and meeting his gaze. After a long pause, she sighed. “So you can’t stay… you’re here, so we know there’s a way for you to return whenever you want. I will hide you away in my little home when you do and nobody ever has to know.”

“Would you want to live a life like that? A life where you constantly wonder when you will see me again? A life of secrets?” Nahri tangled her fingers in his hair and pulled him close.

“A life with you? Yes. A thousand times yes.” He brushed a finger against her lower lip and she closed her eyes again at the feather-light touch. “And you?” she whispered against his hand, her hot breath tickling his skin.

“Me?”

“Is that a life you would want for yourself? A life where you must rely on someone’s generosity to be let into your own city? A life where we can only be together for a few nights after months of absence?” Dara frowned at her, perplexed at the sudden hesitance in her voice. “I mean,” she gestured vaguely at him. “You travel the world, see the most breathtaking places and go on wild adventures… you must come across… beautiful women.”

Dara raised his eyebrows in amusement before a grin spread across his face. “Banu Nahida, are you  _ jealous _ ?” She rolled her eyes, a retort already on her lips, but Dara closed the distance between them and pressed a kiss to her neck. “How does that even  _ work _ for you? Have you looked in a mirror lately?” he muttered against her skin, hearing the smile in his own voice.

“You’re awful,” she admonished, tangling a fist in his hair and pulling his head back. “You’re an awful, awful man. Who doesn’t answer questions!” Purposefully, wickedly, she pulled harder and Dara feigned pain.

“Nahri, stop, you know how attached I am to my hair.” She laughed and he almost kissed her again, just to capture that sound against his mouth. Instead, he composed himself and sat up, her hand falling from his hair to settle on top of one of his hands. “Secrets,” he sighed after a long pause. “I have kept too many from you in the past and those secrets almost destroyed both of us. I cannot turn back time and take my decisions back but Nahri, I vow to you, I will never keep anything from you anymore.”

“Dara-” she began before he cut her off.

“Let me finish, little thief,” he said, stroking the grooves and peaks of her hand. “ I suppose the first thing I will no longer keep from you is how I feel. All those years ago in the pavilion where I killed Banu Manizheh, I said terrible things to you. All things I did not truly mean, all things part of a trick… all but one. I loved you then and I love you now. With everything I have. And I will serve you to the end of my days.” 

Nahri’s eyes shimmered in the darkness, yet her lips tugged upward in a smile. She reached up and grabbed his collar, pulling him down to her. He kissed her eyelids, her wet lashes brushing against his lips. He kissed the bridge of her nose and the tears on her cheek, the line of her jaw and the corner of her lips… and then Nahri was on top of him, her hands crawling under his jacket and under his tunic, her knee between his legs. With her in his lap, he helped her remove the top half of his clothing before he placed his lips at her throat, his hands playing with the hem of her shirt. She groaned a soft expletive that made him smirk, her moan reverberating through her throat against his lips.

“Am I so awful now, Banu Nahida?” He asked, a challenge in his voice. Nahri promptly broke apart and shrugged off her shirt.

“The worst,” she said and pushed him onto his back.

*

“You’d like him. He reminds me of Kartir sometimes.” Dara had been telling Nahri about his life at the temple while she listened, her cheek perched on his shoulder, her eyelashes brushing the skin of his neck every time she blinked. Truth be told, the intimacy of this scared him. He was almost certain this was some kind of cruel dream, the worst of his nightmares, one he would never be able to forget. And yet, he kept talking and she kept listening. “Jaleh’s a menace, even more so now that she’s older.”

“You talked about her in your letter.”

“I did. Although, I still do not know how you managed to read that atrocious penmanship. My apologies,” he smiled.

“It was  _ fine _ , Dara. Don’t be so hard on yourself.” He swallowed, unsure if anyone had ever said that to him in his ridiculously long existence. His mother, perhaps. Or Khayzur. He could not remember.

“There’s Esfir who I believe her mother birthed into a pit of sugar, because she’s unstoppable with the desserts,” he continued, smiling at the memory of little Esfir reaching for yazdi cakes, even as he pushed the platter further and further away. “Navid loves horses and will probably ride better than Pramukh one day-”

“Perhaps even you.”

“Let’s not hold children to impossible standards now.” Nahri laughed again, giving him a peck on his cheek that made him flush. “Pervaiz stitches his own clothes at the age of thirteen, can you believe it? There’s a village nearby with small shops and a tavern, and a valley surrounded by rocky mountains that echoes with the sound of water rushing through a stream. The stars there are so bright should you lay on your back and look up at them…”

“I would like to go there one day,” she said, sounding wistful. “To see the life you have built for yourself. The people you love and who love you.”

“Promise me that you will look into what I said before. That you will attempt to uncover how it was that the Nahids passed the seal between them.” There was a long pause, and then Nahri nodded. “Because if you succeed, I will take you  _ everywhere _ you want to go… And perhaps you can indulge in your past profession for old time’s sake. The bazaars in Agnivansha are crowded with people and exquisite wares and  _ you,  _ my love, are very skilled.”

A comfortable silence fell between them. Nahri formed tracks on his bare stomach, her fingers trailing lightly along the length of his slave mark, from his left shoulder down to his waist and back again. This time when her hand moved down, he held it there - to the freshest mark on his skin directly underneath his left rib cage. “That’s new. From when I killed Banu Manizheh,” his voice cracked as he said it. Nahri was quiet for a long while.

“It’s the last,” she finally said, her voice firm, gaze fixed on the mark. Next, she touched the scar on his stomach: the one Qandisha’s iron scythe had given him. “Where did this come from?”

“I met Qandisha.” Nahri bolted upright, staring at him in horror. Dara offered her a crooked smile, twirling one of her strands of hair around his finger. “She’s dead.”

“ _ You _ killed Qandisha?” she asked slowly, as if it were taking a while to process and release the words. Then, “Good.” She placed her hands on his stomach and positioned herself beside him on her knees. “I can heal it, you know. The scar will be gone.”

Dara thought about it for a moment, that night rushing to him in a wave of memories. Finally, he shook his head, gently prying her hands away from his skin. “No. It is a reminder of the kindness of two women. A kindness I did not deserve.”

Nahri nodded before settling against his shoulder again and he stroked her hair, untangling the knots in her curls as he did so. Not long after, she yawned. “Get some sleep,” he said, suddenly feeling his own lack of sleep catch up with him, after waiting days outside the veil.

“Dara, can you get me my mother’s diary from outside?” He pressed a kiss to her forehead, then rolled off the bed, gliding quietly to where she’d left the leather book. Dara looked around the room, picturing Nahri moving through it, humming to herself as she gathered the stack of books that lay toppled in a corner, or rubbing her forehead with the back of her hand while cooking at the stove. Perhaps one day, he could be by her side, and he saw himself now, carrying the heavy stacks as she handed him book after book, and bringing her ingredients while she cooked, or cleaning the dishes while she rested after a long day of work at the hospital.  _ Perhaps _ .

Dara carried the book back into the bedroom and lit a candle with a wave of his hand. He lay down and handed Nahri the diary, who took it and traced the cover with gentle fingers. Then, she placed her head sideways on his chest, draped an arm across him and began to read. 

_ Look what you have gone and done _ , that irritating voice inside him whispered.  _ How are you supposed to leave her now _ ? Dara swallowed, dreading the moment he knew was coming, for changing his mind about leaving was not possible. But right before that familiar mantle of melancholy settled over him, his life outside Daevabad flashed before his eyes. His purpose and its call to him. The temple with its kind priests, the children who made him feel  _ whole _ again, the friends he had made along the way. Flying on the wind over a world so vast that he could never know it completely even after he had lived his seemingly eternal life and eventually died. And he would return to Daevabad as often as he could to be with the woman he loved for as long as she would have him.

Dara would be okay.

It wasn’t long before he heard a thump only to see the book had fallen from Nahri’s hand, and she was fast asleep draped across his chest, drool soaking his skin. Laughing, he waved his free arm. The sheet at the foot of the bed rose up and covered them both and Dara, wrapping an arm around her waist, closed his eyes… 

And he, too, dozed off to dreams of a future that had never before looked so bright.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finishing this was so surreal because I don't think I've EVER written anything so long, with so many different threads. I loved every moment of it, and I hope I will visit this version of the story in the future, in different snippets of their lives. We'll see when/if that happens.
> 
> Thank you again for reading, for your kind words and your encouragement. It means the world to me. Thank you specifically to a few people: SparrowPixie, whose comments made my day. Kavya who read every chapter with the most enthusiasm lmao, ilu, and Anna, who is still new here but whose encouragement means so much.
> 
> And to you, Hannah. You're the best person I know.


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